


Beneath His Fingertips

by SapphireIsle92



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Construction, Depictions of Graphic Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Homophobic Language, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Massages, Masturbation, Mentions of Prostitution, Mild Internalized Homophobia, Mutual Pining, POV, Slow Burn, Smoking, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, Texting, WIP, Work In Progress, mentions of illegal activities, mild drug use, multi-chapter, secrecy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-06-07 19:19:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 61,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15226095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireIsle92/pseuds/SapphireIsle92
Summary: Mickey Milkovich owns a construction company, a rather successful one at that and lately his days have been long, busy and tiring as they take on an important new contract. He was 24 now, quite young to be the boss, to be above everyone else, but Mickey enjoyed his work, despite the sweat, stress and exhaustion such a position often brought him. But he lived comfortably, made enough money to even put some away and for the most part his life was simple, save for just a tad bit lonely. Mickey kept in close contact with two of siblings, but didn't bother with anyone else. It was easier that way. Until one day at work when the typical chatter amongst his employees on break, planted an idea in Mickey's head that became much too hard for him to shake. And the aches and pains he helplessly developed from all the physical work he put himself through most days, were relentless on him as well, pushing him back toward the very same thought every time they flared. So, eventually Mickey acted on it, stepped out of his comfort zone and does something he'd never thought he'd ever do. It doesn't take long for him to consider that maybe taking such a chance would actually turn out to be worth it, even if it's a little rough getting there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! :)  
> So, I'm sure a lot of you are surprised to see me posting a new fic. I'm actually kinda surprised that I've worked up the nerve to start posting it, so I'm with you there! :)  
> Anyway, firstly, MY OTHER WIPS ARE NOT ABANDONED. I AM STILL WRITING THEM.  
> The thing is though, if you've read my other work, you will know just how incredibly looong all of my chapters are. I also have a new little human in my household, so finding time to complete these long chapters is quite a bit trickier than it used to be. However, I am still writing, but I sometimes feel like I'm moving much too slowly with it. I apologize for this. <3 But I still want to give you all something instead of nothing while working to get my other stories updated. So, I've been playing around with this, which has VASTLY shorter chapters and completed 2 as a start. I do not know exactly when I will update this, but I'm hoping it will be fairly often since these will not be nearly as long as the others. Any feedback is more than welcome! Hope you enjoy what I have so far! :)

Today wasn't necessarily a bad day as far as Mickey was concerned. It was kinda cloudy out and not too hot, which was comfortable for him and his truck that Iggy had pieced together for him two years ago wasn't acting like a complete piece of shit today. His father was also still rotting away in prison and waking up every day knowing that was always especially nice. Best of all though, his company had just recently signed on to work on a big, new project that entailed the construction of an enormous fitness gym in a run down area of Southside that was quickly beginning to reflourish with freshly built houses and other smaller businesses. Deep down part of him absolutely hated participating in the gentrification of his old neighborhood, but the deal was sure to give himself as well as all of his employees hefty pay checks in the end, so long as they go about everything the right way and he couldn't seem to complain about that.

They'd broken ground just over a week ago and were hard at work moving through the excavation process, simply tearing down a few abandoned shells of what was once a large apartment complex and ripping up the old concrete. It was straight forward, demanding work and it was tough, and as much as he may complain about it, secretly Mickey loved it all. It was the one thing he'd ever done himself that he actually thought was something good, something right. 

Milkovich Construction Co., as unoriginal as the name sounded, belonged to Mickey, who only settled on the title after not being able to think of a single fucking thing else to call it. And it was Mickey who funded it's start after receiving a life insurance payout from his deceased mother, ran the business every single day as well as managing all of the company's dealings and employees. He also had one employee named Patrick, who has been working with Mickey at his business since he first started it 5 years ago at the tender age of only 19. He'd promoted him to supervisor and relies on him occasionally to help run things when Mickey isn't around. He trusts Patrick, but only to a professional extent. 

Mickey preferred to keep to himself in his personal time, and he liked having his own space. Since his business has become fairly successful in these last few years, Mickey lives comfortably, but still doesn't like to boast. He feels that he's earned what he has, he knows he has and deserves to feel comfortable living alone in a fairly roomy apartment, with a balcony and a view on the far edge of Northside. He got out of the ghetto and he couldn't be more proud of himself for that. But Mickey was also pretty lonely and always seemed to have an empty hole in his chest that nothing could fill. 

He remained closeted throughout most of his life, the only real people knowing his sexual preferences being his brother and sister, along with their father, though the man firmly denounced it, especially being as it was the whole reason he went to prison in the first place. None of his subordinates had any idea that Mickey was gay either, mostly because he always tried so very hard to keep such parts of his life separate from the professional parts, didn't like having other people's noses in his business. Only Patrick really knew anything at all, which still wasn't much, simply knowing that Mickey had been single for years and apparently prefers to stay that way, having never shown any interest otherwise.

But at least Mickey had gotten used to dodging such queries for the most part and they thankfully don't come up often anyway, so he doesn't usually have to try very hard to do that. But it was always unbelievably fucking awkward when it does happen, no matter how much he used to covering it up. Unfortunately for Mickey, this predicament arises for him once again when he happens to take a lunch break on site one afternoon, just a few days into the beginning of construction while a fairly sizeable group of subordinates are eating their lunches as well and try to pull him into conversation with them. 

“I just don't understand how the hell you're able to put up with fucking the same woman for the rest of your life,” breathed Paul, then shook his head and took a bite from a greasy cheeseburger he held in his grip, “Doesn't that shit get fucking boring?” he asked and the man beside him laughed with a headshake of his own.

“Say what you want,” said Vinny, “She knows what I like. Don't ever gotta remind her,” he explained with a chuckle, then took a bite of his own burger in his hand, “Not to mention her tits are fucking glorious,” Vinny grumbled on his mouthful, “And she gives better head than any other broad I've ever come across,” he laughed and the other men joined him. Then Paul gave a shrug.

“Why settle for just one pair of tits though?” Paul persisted, then took another bite, “The whole fucking world's full of ‘em. Don't matter how good her dome is either,” he chewed, then swallowed, “I'm sure you could find an even nicer pair and an even better throat if you just went out and looked,” the man assured, but Vinny simply held his grin and stuck his chin up. 

“But doin’ that, you never really know what you're gonna get,” he retorted, “My Sandra's a sure thing for me,” Vinny said firmly, “She's worth more than all the loose legged ladies on the planet,” he said, then began to crumble his burger wrapper inside a fist, “Having someone who will never get sick of ya is a lot nicer than you think,” said Vinny, “Maybe when you get to be my age, you'll figure that out.” Paul smacked his lips and chuckled again with skepticism. 

“Maybe that shriveled old flank a meat you got between your legs has just gotten lazy,” he quipped, causing a few other man to snicker with amusement, “Too damn tired to bother lookin' for something different anymore,” said Paul as he swallowed the last bite of his cheeseburger and licked his lips as he chewed over a grin. 

Mickey wasn't really listening, much more interested in his sandwich he'd just brought back from the gas station on the corner, and mostly just tried to drown out the background chatter the way he always did. But even if he made no attempt to join the conversation, it still didn't stop his dumbass employees from steering it his way, as much as he silently always hoped that they wouldn't. Paul wiped his palms together, then rubbed them across the filthy, dust packed thighs of his jeans.

“Not me though,” he continued, as his boss sat just a few feet away, pressing his lips together and rolling his eyes at the sound of the man's idiotic banter, “I'd much rather have a different bitch every night,” claimed Paul, though Mickey wondered if an attitude like that ever got him a single one, “Even easier if you just got a little cash and know where to go,” he added, to which the older man beside him merely chuckled and shook his head, then Paul dared to make a comment to Mickey, without really thinking first. 

“I bet Boss Man knows what I mean,” said Paul and the foreman's eyes narrowed just a bit as he swallowed a mouthful of his sandwich and lifted his face to meet the other man's unwitting gaze.

“The fuck you just say to me?” Mickey shot back with just the slightest authoritative heat lacing his voice. His subordinate hesitated a bit, but only slightly, keeping hold of his expression and posture. 

“I mean, we've never heard about no wife,” Paul noted innocently, “You're not letting one tie ya down either, eh?” the man grinned with a pointed brow, “Too much fucking pussy in the world to stick to one,” chuckled Paul. 

Mickey honestly felt disgusted by the man's remark, and thought they were the words of an idiot, save for the bit about not wanting to be tied down. That part made sense to Mickey in more ways than one. Still, he even though he didn't completely agree, he was used to enduring this sort of talk by now and simply scoffed and forced a chuckle of his own, shaking his head and looking back down at his sandwich. 

“Ain't no bitch worth all that fuckin' time,” agreed Mickey. 

Several men laughed and agreed, as well as Paul who then shot the older man beside him a rather smug smile. Vinny merely chuckled with another shake of a sweaty brow and raised both hands in defeat. Then Mickey stuffed the last bite of his ham and cheese into his mouth, began to chew and decided he'd had enough of listening to this shit. 

“Alright, now if you're all gonna keep sittin' the fuck around chattin' it up back here 'bout fuckin’ bitches, I'mma start treatin' y'all like fuckin’ bitches,” Mickey snapped out with intent, now pointing and directing his employees back out toward the work site, “Get back to fuckin' work!” he ordered, his voice quickly ushering every other man from the room, except of course Patrick, who hovered a bit behind everyone and paused near his boss' side. The dark haired man shot him a very flat look as he walked toward the nearby waste bin to discard of his trash, then arched a sharp eyebrow.

“Did you not fuckin' hear me, asshole?” queried Mickey with a firm tone, though it had much less heat within it than it had a moment ago, not quite minding Patrick nearly as much as the others, “I said get the fuck back to work,” he repeated, then tossed his trash and stared at him, “The fuck are you still standin' here for?” The other man grinned and flicked his head toward the scramble of men who had just departed. 

“I'm just trying to figure out how the fuck Paul's head is still on his shoulders,” replied Patrick, then tipped his chin, “You never let people ask you personal shit like that,” he said, then upturned a palm, “What gives?” The other man merely lowered his eyebrow and gave a very nonchalant shrug of his shoulder. 

“Paul's the only asshole certified on the fuckin' forklift,” said Mickey, “If I take the fucker’s head off right now, he’ll take too fuckin' long to replace,” he quipped sarcastically and Patrick laughed.

“Shit would probably end up doing him some fucking good though actually,” suggested Patrick, “Can't seem to get his mind outta the fuckin' gutter anyway,” he chuckled and the other man scoffed. 

“None a you shitheads can,” corrected Mickey, earning him a grinning nod of agreement.

“Yeah…” replied Patrick, “But Paul's got it bad,” he informed him, causing the other man to crease his brow as he crossed the room again to grab his clipboard, “Spends way too much time at those fucking spas and massage parlors if ya know what I mean,” revealed Patrick with a waggle of his eyebrows. The dark haired man scrunched his face a bit and gave his head a short but firm shake. 

“I really fuckin' don't, Pat,” said Mickey. Patrick screwed his face up in response, as his eyes widened with disbelief and he upturned another palm. 

“Like the Red Swan down on the edge of Canaryville,” he specified, then nudged his boss with a friendly elbow, “You know what those kinda places are, Mick,” insisted Patrick, “They got ladies who do favors for a couple extra bucks,” he said, then let another small laugh slip from his lip, “Some of ‘em even have dudes working there in case any faggots show up,” Patrick added, to which Mickey's neck stiffened and he instantly became insanely uncomfortable. He pulled the pen from the clasp of his clipboard and began to scribble down atop it, turning his eyes down to blindly focus on whatever form he had stacked on top. 

“What a waste of fuckin' money,” Mickey mumbled without looking up, then flipped the first page so he could pretend to read the next one, really just wanting the conversation to be over with, but Patrick was apparently still not finished. 

“Sometimes it's worth it though,” countered Patrick, lowering his voice just slightly, but hardly much at all, “I’ve paid for my fair share of girls,” he admitted quite shamelessly, then cocked his head, “It's a pretty sweet fucking deal as long as you don't get hooked on the shit,” he said, then tipped his brow out toward the work site, “I think that's Pauly boy's problem,” pondered Patrick, then he looked back at Mickey, “Maybe he should strictly stick to just getting massages,” he chuckled, “Not all the extra shit.” Mickey then flipped his page back forward, clicked his pen and slid it behind his ear, ready to get back to work himself and not loiter any longer. 

“Maybe everyone should just let go a their cocks for five fucking minutes so we can finally get back to fucking work,” Mickey suggested instead, then gave a wave of his hand toward the work site and flick of his brow for the other man to join him, “Shit ain't gonna fuckin' build itself.” 

The rest of Mickey's day is spend with him overseeing the last of the building demolition, signing off on new equipment, barking orders around and directing people to their assigned duties whenever he happen to catch them standing around. A few times he was forced to take over a few tasks that typically belongs to the newer guys, more manual grunt work than anything else, like hauling rubble and breaking down larger pieces. But Mickey only did so because he was sick of seeing them do everything so fucking incorrectly and they just couldn't seem to listen to direction. Then after getting a rather large chunk of concrete dropped on his foot, he'd snapped at them to take over and get it right or next time he'd fire them.

But it ultimately ends well, relatively so, and he's feeling pretty good about how everything is starting out. He’s the last one to leave the site that evening, like he usually was, taking a stroll around to double check what's been done to make sure everything is right and they'd be able to stay on schedule the next day. Though when he gets home that night, he simply aches and his body feels sore, more so than it usually does, but he just tries to ignore it.

He settled into bed with a cold beer, microwaved meal and flipped on his television, hoping to tire himself out enough to fall asleep, enough to ignore the quiet. But the muscles in his shoulders began to ache again, his back began to throb with the most distracting subtle burn and he just couldn't get comfortable. Frustrated, Mickey finished the last few bites of his dinner, swallowed the last swig of his beer , then tossed the empty tray beside him on the end table, setting his empty bottle beside it, then reached over to switch of the lamp, leaving only the staticy, bluish glow of his television to fill him room around him.

Mickey then laid down a little flatter, pulled his covers up to his neck, as he rolled his shoulders around beneath his shirt, which caused his face to scrunch a bit with discomfort, groaning quietly as he did. He shifted slightly then stilled, his mind still not quite able to shut down and stared very blankly and heavy-lidded toward his television screen, watching as late night commercials flashed across it. Then another popped up that caught his attention a little more.

On the screen lay a man face down on a massage table wearing nothing but a towel, with another standing beside him, leaned over his back with strong, firm hands rubbing oil into the first man's muscles. The masseuse's hands moved slowly and surely, gripping tight along flesh, then smoothing back out more gently and Mickey couldn't help but watch. 

At first he had the urge to jerk off, having not gotten any action in far too long and the display on the television before him was rather luring. But just as he ran a palm down his stomach and slipped them inside his boxers to grasp his cock, a stubborn muscle in his shoulder flared within his flesh once more and he groaned again, slipping his palm back out. It was too distracting to focus and his brow crinkled with irritation and annoyance. Then as his gaze flashed back toward the scene still playing in front of him, another thought came from the back of his mind, remembering what Patrick had told him earlier about Paul and his brain began to ponder.

He may have lied just the slightest bit when Patrick had spoke to him before, knowing full well what kind of establishment the Red Swan was and what type of 'services' they were most know for, but had never really put much thought into anything else about it, simply not having any interest in it. But now, for some reason he found himself quite intrigued the more he let the idea stew in his mind. 

Yes, Mickey knew the kind of extracurricular services were offered at that particular massage parlor, but he also knew they offered legitimate ones as well. And even though he wasn’t typically the type to enjoy being touched too much by a stranger, or by anyone at all really, the more his back muscles seemed to prickle against his spine, the more he thought the idea didn't sound all that bad, especially if they happen to have any male masseuses working there like Patrick had mentioned they would. 

He continued to think in silence, turning off his television once the commercial had changed again and simply listened to himself breathe into the darkness for a few quiet moments. Then Mickey closed his eyes, adjusted an elbow behind his head and exhaled, imagining the feeling of relief a strong pair of hands rubbing the ache and tension from his body would bring him. And with that, the pain seemed to dull just a bit and he yawned widely and sleepily just before he finally drifted off.


	2. Chapter 2

After a few more days on site, the ache in Mickey's shoulders wasn't letting up and with constantly having to be on his feet, running around such a large building site to yell at people all day long, his back was starting to fuck with him something fierce. But he swallowed each and every groan and kept a stone expression in front is his subordinates, refusing to let any hint of weakness show. He was known for being tough, hard and strict and he wasn't about to let a little pain fuck that all up right now. Until one day they ended things early and he got in his truck to go home, when a sudden spasm of excruciation shot down through his spine and wrapped around his hip with a sharp, angry stab, causing him to slam hard on his brakes so that he didn't end up swerving into oncoming traffic.

He cursed beneath his breath, punched a hard fist into his steering wheel, then dropped his face with a tempered exhale, just before raising it back, slowly pulling over to the side of the road and lighting a cigarette. Mickey pulled a thick drag of smoke into his lungs, then exhaled through the crack in his window as he gave his brow a rub. ‘Fuck,’ he thought. 

The last few days, Mickey had started thinking about the Red Swan more and more, having even googled it the other night and found the place had a website. He had to admit, it didn't look terrible. They seemed relatively professional, had a heavily enforced discretion and confidentiality policy and he was quickly getting fed up with trying to ignore his pain and discomfort in front of his employees anyway, so it was becoming more and more appealing to him. Mickey also saw that they had a brief list of their workers, their specialties and a section for him to scroll their reviews. Patrick had been correct when he'd told Mickey that there were men working there as well, but he could only seem to find one, not that he was very picky. Any man's hands would be better than a woman's, he was sure of that much, no matter how much the sensation of any stranger's hands all over his body would undoubtedly take time to get used to. But now he was thinking about it again, very seriously considering it and sucked another drag as he pulled his phone from his pocket and pulled the business' page back up.

He scrolled briefly back through the names of their workers and found the only man's name there; Ian, then paused, tapping the phone against his knee and contemplating some more. Mickey had no way to know if the man was working today, but just the possibility of it was enough for him to nod just slightly and tossed his phone up onto the dashboard. He then took a final hit of smoke, flicked his filter into the street, then pulled out to whip a U-turn and began driving toward Canaryville. 

When he arrived, he sat in his truck and stared at the little red building, making absolutely no move to step out and approach it just yet. Mickey chewed his lip and tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel, nervous, cautious and suddenly debating with himself again, almost trying to talk himself out of it. His eyes moved along the rail that hid the underground entry from street view, then flashed upward toward a brightly lit ‘Open' sign and darkly tinted windows. It looked fairly discreet, save for the bright, red paint that covered every brick, and it looked pretty quiet too, which appealed to Mickey quite a bit.

He couldn't take the risk of anyone he knows seeing him here and at worst exposing him for it, considering most of the men who frequented these places were lonely, old dead beats just looking for a cheap blow job. Mickey was more proud than that and private than that, even his random bar hook ups always being quick, nameless and secluded in dimly lit places. He liked his privacy, he really did and he didn't want to lose it, but his curiosity never seemed to fade the longer he sat there, the longer he stared and he made no move to drive away. He knew it would help too, getting a massage and he didn't need any extra services, so it was just a legitimate business transaction and nothing more. The dark haired man sat on this excuse for a moment, and in some way it seemed to help his unsurety, at least a little bit. Then Mickey grumbled quietly and cursed again under his breath as he ran a strenuous palm down over his face, before finally he willed himself to swallow his pride, turned slightly within his seat to unbuckle his belt and opened the door. 

After a few deeps breaths and barking quietly to himself to quit being a pussy, he eventually made his way inside, taking slow, cautious steps as we went, trying to not let his nerves get the best of him. He walked through a small entry way and was met by an older woman with frizzy brown hair and too much lipstick. She sat alone at a desk beside a small waiting area lined with chairs that sat a few other men that kept their faces in their phones or flipping through a magazine. Mickey's steps slowed a little further as he took in his surroundings, none of it being nearly as trashy or dinghy as he'd expected, and he suddenly felt extremely out of place, like he didn't belong here. His uneasiness made him swallow and pause, suddenly having half a mind to just turn the fuck around, when a voice stopped him instead.

“Hello,” the woman greeted politely from behind her desk, “Welcome to the Red Swan,” she smiled as she folded her hands together in front of her, “Do you have an appointment this evening?” 

Mickey froze where he stood and shifted his feet a bit, pausing, before he gave a single, short shake of his head. The woman eyed him for a moment, raising a thoughtful hand to her chin, then tilted her head.

“First time?” she asked. 

His fingers fiddled against his legs with hesitation just before he gave a small nod. Her smile warmed a little at his response and demeanor, then curled a forefinger, asking him to step closer, which Mickey did, but very slowly. He expected her to ask him what exactly he was coming in for, or if he had a particular issue that he need assistance with, but instead what she asked him caught him a little off guard. 

“Do you have any preferences?” the woman queried, to which the man creased his brow and simply offered nothing more than a very questioning expression. She pushed a small amused huff through her nose, then sorted through the sheets atop her desk to extract a clipboard and place it in front of him, “Preferences,” she repeated in a rather particular tone, then gave a point down toward the clipboard, “All of our masseuses are listed here along with their specialties,” she said, “Blondes, brunettes, lots of variety available,” the woman mentioned with a vague wave, “Please pick one that strikes your interest and we will see what we can do,” she advised with a smile, then looked away to rearrange her disorganized clutter of sheets once more. 

Mickey dropped his eyes to scan the list, seeing it being pretty much the same one he'd viewed on their website, but this one was different in the fact that it also had pictures attached beside each name. Blue eyes moved lower as they glanced across each face, many with fake tits, long hair and way too much make up. Then he paused on the picture at the end, his gaze locking on the only masculine face on the entire sheet; Ian. This was Ian. The man was young, well built and definitely much more attractive than Mickey had assumed he'd be. He had deep green eyes, a bright shock of red hair atop his head and a tight, handsome grin pressed into a smooth, freckled face. Even if there had been another man listed here, Mickey highly doubted that he'd pick any except this guy. He was fucking gorgeous. The dark haired man thumbed his lip, gave the slightest point with his brow and looked back up at the receptionist. 

“Redhead,” Mickey replied quietly. The woman followed his gesture, raised her eyebrows a bit and smiled at him again. 

“Interesting choice,” she noted, then looked him over a bit, “Not quite what I would have guessed,” the woman added with a slightly smug raise of her eyebrows. She then reached back up for her clipboard and flipped through a few pages on it, stopping to trace one with her fingertip, “Looks like they're available right now too, if you'd like?” the woman met his eyes questioningly. The man standing in front of returned her query with a very flat expression and replied in a thick impatient tone, hoping it would cover the nerves he still had lingering along the back of his neck.

“Well, I sure as fuck didn't drive all the way down here just to stand around scratchin' my ass,” quipped Mickey. The woman held her smile and pushed out her lower lip.

“Of course not,” she agreed, then moved her clipboard aside, “Much better to have someone else do it for you,” the woman joked with a wink. 

The man shifted his feet again in wait and stuffed his hands down inside his pockets. The receptionist wrote something down briefly, then looked back up to ask his name, which he gave her, but quietly, making sure to keep an eye on the other men awaiting their appointments just a few feet away. The woman scribbled a bit more, took a glance at the clock, then looked back at Mickey. 

“Prices, session lengths, scheduling and services are all to be discussed directly with your masseuse,” she informed him, “As per our confidentiality policy,” she continued, “I am just the middle person who keeps track of when you arrive mostly, to let your masseuse know when you're here,” said the woman. She then pushed her chair back from her desk, just before she stood to round it and made a point down a long, narrow hallway. 

“The worker you've chosen is just down this hall here, the last door on the left,” she directed, “It should be open,” the woman added, then turned back around to reach for a metal pad beside her desk phone that was lined with buttons that each had a little light fitted snugly beside them, “I will let him know that he has a new client on the way,” she said, then pressed down onto a single button, causing it to buzz and brighten the little bulb next to it. The woman turned back, another pasty, red lipped smile tugging on her mouth, “Enjoy your session, sir,” she finalized, then gestured back down the hall with a single outstretched hand. The man gave a single nod, took another subtle deep breath and began to walk again. 

He passed by many doors, most of them closed, a few of them open and empty, and he tried vigorously to rub the sweat off his palms as his hands curled inside his pockets. Mickey was still a little nervous, but he was also quickly growing antsy and anxious, just trying to ignore the dull, nagging ache that still clung to his shoulders and spine, and hoping the drive down here will end up being worth it. Then he paused again, standing silently outside the room he'd been directed to and chewed his lip a bit before he peeked his head inside. 

There was a little lightbulb beside the doorway that flashed a low, red glare and buzzed with each pulse in a strobe. Mickey assumed this what was the man had been notified of his arrival with and pushed out his lip with the slightest nod on his chin. His gaze traveled further inside, finding a small room with a single massage table in the middle, a standing lamp in the corner with several different colored bulbs and a thin, wooden table along one wall that was lined with candles, incense, a small radio and a small, square cabinet beside it. There was a large potted fern pressed snugly into one corner, that Mickey assumed was fake, as there were no windows to let in any sunlight, and a single, folding changing divider stretched out in the other. Then he saw a tall, pale, young man step out from behind it, carrying an armful of towels and rags, strolling a few paces toward the other side of the room to drop them all into a hamper and Mickey swallowed again.

Ian was even more attractive in person than he'd been in his picture and Mickey couldn't quite believe it as he took a moment to take the man in. He was taller than he'd appeared to be in his photo and his body was bulkier, harder, much more toned than he'd noticed before. The bold, fiery red of his hair was even brighter up close, if that was even possible, and his skin was covered in more freckles than he thought he'd ever seen on another person before. But he looked good, really good, a fact that was suddenly almost intimidating to the other man, but he just chewed his cheek in silence, becoming just slightly more determined upon the sight of him.

Mickey just watched him for a moment, moving from the hamper over toward the long, thin table against the other wall, seeing as he began to sort through his various candles and incense sticks, having not yet noticed his new client loitering in the doorway. He wanted to stare even longer, though he knew he probably looked like a complete fucking creep while he did it. But then the stubborn muscles in his shoulder pinched together again, causing the pain to flare and it frustrated him again, causing him to finally clear his throat to announce himself. The other man stood straight at the sound and turned his face, laying his gaze upon Mickey and pausing with a fairly quick glance down along his form, then smiled in a very casual way as he met his eyes again.

“Oh, hey there,” the redhead greeted and turned more fully, “You must be my client,” he said, to which the other man simply paused and tipped his chin. Ian then took a few steps forward and looked him over again, “Not really the usual type I see come through here,” he observed. The dark haired man creased his brow. 

“The fuck is the usual type?” asked Mickey, feeling a little confused and trying to figure out if he should be offended or not. The other man held his grin.

“Frailer, grayer, more wrinkles,” he shrugged with a light chuckle and stopped his steps in front of him. Mickey scoffed, arched an eyebrow with a head cock and pointed with his thumb back down the hallway. 

“Well I can fuck off then if you’d rather just stick to the geriatric shit,” he quipped, actually earning him a laugh out of Ian that sounded much better to Mickey’s ears than it probably should have. 

“No, no, please,” the redhead insisted, gesturing with a welcoming outstretched palm toward his cozy, little workspace inside the room, “I'd love to have a client that I'm not afraid of breaking,” he smiled with another small chuckle slipping from his lips and Mickey just tried not to visibly swallow again at the man's choice of words, forcing himself not to hesitate and took another slow step inside. 

“I'm Ian,” the man said, to which the other gave a simple nod.

“I know,” said Mickey. 

Ian folded his hands behind his back, looking at him expectantly, gradually raising his chin as he was met with silence, his new client taking a slow, curious look around. Yet he never lost his simple smile or calm demeanor as he did. 

“What may I call you?” asked Ian. The other man thumbed his lip and met his eyes. 

“Mickey,” he replied. The redhead's smile raised just slightly and he gave his face a tilt. 

“Well then, Mickey,” Ian said, “How can I help you today?” The dark haired man looked at him with a ridiculous expression, screwing up his face at the question. 

“My fuckin' back’s startin' to kill me,” Mickey informed him like it was something obvious, “Pain in the ass to work with the shit,” he said, then arched an eyebrow, “Why the fuck else you think I'd be down here?” he asked. The redhead pushed out his lip and shrugged a single shoulder. 

“I've seen plenty of people come in for lots of other things,” he said. Mickey kept his eyebrow raised and felt his neck tense just a little bit, assuming the man was referring to ‘special services.’ He instinctively hardened his stance just the slightest bit and creased his brow a little deeper.

“The fuck you mean?” he pressed, but the other man still held the very same grin he'd had when Mickey entered. 

“You know, other things,” Ian repeated with an upturned palm, “Necks, shoulders, hips, legs, all kinds of stuff,” he explained and Mickey's defensive posture dropped just a little. 

There was a small moment of silence, and they just looked at each other, Ian still appearing quiet collected and Mickey just wouldn't completely budge. Then Ian chuckled again and moved to shut the door behind them.

“You gotta try to relax, man,” advised Ian, turning back toward him and walking further into the room, “I’m just here to help,” he said, then paused beside the massage table, “You said you're in pain, right?” Ian reiterated and Mickey gave a small nod that the redhead mirrored, “Well, then can you tell me where it hurts exactly?” he asked, “Then maybe I can relieve some of it for you.” The other man sucked in his lip and chewed it again, then began to move his arms behind his back as if to point out the problem areas, when the masseuse stopped him with a raise of his palm.

“Uh, actually better yet, why don't you just come sit down?” offered Ian with a point down at the table, “Much easier for me to figure out that way,” he said, then began rubbing his hands together as if he were readying them and took a small step aside, looking at Mickey expectantly.

But he didn't quite move, suddenly feeling nervous all over again about having someone else's hands on him in any intentional way and just looked at him for another moment, trying not to appear awkward. The redhead just split a smirk as he waited, then almost as if he could read Mickey's mind, gave a slight raise of his eyebrows.

“I can't do my job if you’re not gonna let me touch you,” he said simply. 

Mickey blinked. He knew the man was right, obviously, well aware of the fact before he even got there, but it didn't make him feel any less out of his comfort zone. And Mickey also knew that he sure as fuck didn't come all the way back down into his old neighborhood for nothing. He wouldn't risk being seen down here unless it was for something really important, so he figured he ought to push himself and just do it. He did as he was told, moving to make more steps inside the room and sat down on the edge of the massage table, trying not to feel so fucking tense as the tall, handsome redhead rounded it to the other side. Very gently, Ian placed his fingertips at the base of Mickey's neck and pushed down lightly.

“Okay, so where exactly is the tension?” he asked. The dark haired man tried to relax his muscles and shifted his shoulders just slightly, dipping his head a bit. 

“It starts about there and goes across my fuckin' shoulders. Sometimes it runs down my whole fuckin' back,” the man behind him hummed in acknowledgement, and delicately moved his fingers over the very tops of his blades, pushing down just the slightest bit as he felt around to locate the hardened lumps of muscle beneath his shirt, “It's a bitch,” he mumbled as he tried to focus more on fully relaxing. As Ian's hand searched, Mickey groaned quietly, simply unable to stop it from slipping out when the redhead suddenly hit a tender rather spot.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Ian agreed, “Shit,” he added lowly, sounding like they felt just as bad from the outside as they did on the inside, then moved his hands a little lower and gave the muscles another gentle squeeze, “What do you do for work?” asked Ian. The other man turned his face slightly, flashing his eyes toward him a bit and creased his forehead. 

“Why?” Mickey asked back to which the other man tilted his head, just as the pads of both thumbs smoothed back together and met on his neck. 

“I've seen this kinda thing a few times in people who work manual labor jobs,” explained Ian, then moved both his hands to one side, lightly but firmly rubbing them over his flesh in a long, slow motion, “They tend to carry their stress in their shoulders mostly,” he continued with another rub, “And their lower back,” he said. The dark haired man swallowed another small groan as the ache in his muscles began to scream a little louder longer the other man rubbed them, even though he'd hardly even touched him yet at all. 

“I uh, work in fuckin' construction,” replied Mickey and Ian hummed again. 

“Mmhmm, see I thought it might be something like that,” said Ian, then brought his hands back together behind his other shoulder to mirror his movements from the first, still mostly just feeling him out and tipped his head a little, “Boss being a prick and working you too hard?” Ian wondered in a very light tone, earning him a thick scoff in return. 

“I am the fuckin' boss,” revealed Mickey in a thick spat, “Sometimes if you want shit done right you just gotta do it your fuckin' self,” he said and the redhead just pressed his lips together with a smile.

“My mistake,” chuckled Ian. 

He finished his mapping of the other man's shoulder, then moved back to his spine, applying light pressure as he slowly moved downward, and Mickey began to bite his lip with discomfort from the way the pain pulsed a little harder the lower he got. Then his thumb hit a soft, sore area in between his hip bones, causing him to stiffen on a flinch and swallow a wince. The redhead paused his thumbs and didn't press any further. 

“Tender there?” he queried, earning him another scoff.

“What the fuck do you think?” Mickey shot back with a fairly heatless tone, then bit his tongue to muffle another small groan. But Ian still held his expression, not put off by the other man's harshness in the slightest. 

“I think you could be a little kinder to the person who's trying to help you out here,” Ian replied rather bluntly, causing the dark haired man to turn his head enough to look at him, seeing his still calm, collected expression, watching as he slowly arched an eyebrow, “You may have to be a hardass out there in the world every day, but here in this room you don't have to be,” said Ian, and Mickey's eyes flickered, taken off guard by the words, but he listened, he didn't look away, and the other man smiled softly once more, “Everybody experiences pain and there's no shame in seeking out a little help to try and fix it,” he stated simply, lightly, holding his eye contact as he spoke, “So, would you like me to help you, or not?” asked Ian. 

Mickey actually felt a little bad hearing that, knowing he was probably being way more difficult than he needed to be, but it was difficult in itself not to be. It's just who he was. He chewed his lip again, the gnaw now beginning to form a new pain of it's own, and his expression conceded just slightly, then gave his chin a tip. 

“How much this shit gonna cost me?” Mickey asked suddenly and Ian seemed to think a moment, then pursed his lips over a smirk. 

“For you, I'll do sixty an hour,” replied Ian, causing Mickey's eyes to grow wide with astonishment.

“You make sixty fuckin' bucks an hour to rub random dude's asses, backs and feet?” he blurted, causing the redhead to suddenly crack another laugh and Ian crossed his arms.

“That's not what I said,” he countered smugly, “I said for you I will work for sixty bucks,” Ian specified with a pointed brow, then confidently raised his chin at the man, “My typical services usually run much higher,” he informed him with a tight, pressed grin. 

Mickey blinked again and looked him over skeptically. It not like he couldn’t afford the price the man had set, he certainly could. He just thought it seemed a little steep just to let a stranger rub and pinch and knead at all the painful knotted tangles inside your muscles. He also wasn't sure why the other man would charge him less than anyone else but at the moment, he really didn't care. And eventually Mickey relented, willing himself not to be difficult any longer and let his head fall back a bit as he met the other man's eyes again. 

“This better be the best sixty fuckin' bucks I ever spend in my entire fuckin' life,” Mickey warned. Ian smiled a little wider, uncrossed his arms, then held his hands up and wiggled his fingers. 

“I've been told that my fingers work magic,” Ian bragged, “I can assure you that you are in the absolute best of hands,” he assured and Mickey simply couldn't help but huff another small scoff through his nose at that. But he didn't object, turning his face away to let the man continue whatever it was he was going to do, when Ian spoke again and he sort of froze a bit. 

“I just need you to strip off your clothes, wrap a towel around your waist and lay face down here for me,” directed Ian, splaying two hands down upon the table, causing Mickey to hold the very same shocked expression, stuck in a brief instant of silence, then blinked at him again. 

“Are you outta your fuckin' mind?” Mickey shot back incredulously, “The fuck are you talkin' about?” he asked, and the other man laughed again, but this time the dark haired man stayed quite serious, making absolutely no move to do any such thing. Ian gave a point toward the tall, black changing divider that stood in the far corner of the room. 

“I need to you take your clothes off and put on a towel,” he repeated a little slower, looking as if he now found the other man's discomfort just the slightest bit amusing but stayed quite professional, “Clothing does not allow me to have a proper grip against your skin,” explained Ian, “It's a legitimate fucking hinderance on massage work,” he added frankly, “It's just standard procedure,” he assured, but Mickey still remained solid as a stone where he sat, looking at him like he really was out of his fucking mind, and Ian let out a small sigh. 

“Look,” said Ian, seeming to really and honestly try and level with him, “If you really don't want to strip completely, you don't have to,” he said, then raised his eyebrows and pointed toward his body, “But I do need you to at least take your shirt off, because your back where all your pain is,” he added, informing the man that he must compromise in some way, then pointed down toward the table once more, “And I do need you to lay down, because it's the most effective way for me to help you,” said Ian, “That okay with you?” he held the raise in his brow and waited. 

The dark haired man let a heavy exhale pass through his nose, but conceded, moving to unbutton his shirt and slide it from his shoulders, to which the other man outstretched a hand to take it from him. The air in the room was warmer than Mickey anticipated, but it didn't help him any, now avoiding the other man's eyes as he stood, handed it over, then turned around and lay face down on the massage table without another word. He shifted his body a little, and adjusted his face within the facial opening of the platform trying to get comfortable, all the while feeling incredibly vulnerable as he listened to the redhead's footsteps move around him in a space he could no longer see. He caught a glimpse of Ian's feet as he crossed back through the room to approach the little cabinet beside his table lined with candles and paused his steps for a second. 

“Do you have any scent preferences?” Ian queried, causing Mickey's face to scrunch with a thick crease between his eyes. 

“The fuck ya mean?” Mickey asked back and he heard the man stifle another small laugh. 

“Are there any smells that you like?” the redhead rephrased with a clear smile lacing his voice and the other man thought for a second, but the scrunch in his expression remained.

“I don't really fuckin' care for any kinda smelly shit,” replied Mickey.

“Okay gotcha, no smelly shit,” repeated Ian, “Fair enough,” he said, then Mickey heard him rummage around a bit within a drawer of the cabinet, “Warm or cool?” he asked instead, and the other man's expression smoothed a little bit at that choice and pulled down his lip a bit. 

“Cool,” he replied quietly, then heard another small clink of bottles being moved around before he heard the drawer shut with a light clap. 

Then Mickey tensed with an anticipation and closed his eyes with another long, slow exhale, trying to relax all over again, when he felt a few drops of a cold silk liquid sprinkle atop his skin and he had to try not to flinch. But the sensation was almost instantly muffled and smoothed out by two large, strong hands grasping down to begin gliding along his muscles. As the oil began to spread it began to cool and tingle and ripple in an amazingly soothing way and as Ian pressed his fingertips further into flesh, rubbing at his muscles in long, sure strokes, Mickey almost began to melt under the touch. 

He pressed his shut more tightly and felt his teeth bite down into his lip with a sharp, deep sting, but he didn't even care. Every muscle began to flare against the tingle between Ian's fingers, but in a way that suddenly felt as if their ache was being soothed and Mickey just tried not to shudder as his hands slowly curled into fists. Then when Ian would stop and push his thumbs into a tender bundle of knots, the pain would vibrate and disperse the more intently he massaged little circles into his flesh, untangling them one my one. Mickey's breath fell a little heavier without his notice and he relaxed even more, loosening him further as Ian's grip traveled down along his spine.

The space around them fell quiet, save for the occasional slick of a palm rubbing into flesh, a heavy breath pushed out from between Mickey's lips or a small, chesty groan that'd get trapped inside his throat when Ian twisted his thumb inside of another knot. At one point Mickey had become so incredibly relaxed that his body had loosened almost fully and his blood began to flow, filling his cock inside his pants and he was just happy that he'd agreed to lay down on his stomach after all. He simply couldn't help it. This man's hands were amazing. 

It didn’t feel like an hour had passed, and he almost wished that it hadn't, seeming as if the time had gone far too quickly. But before Ian had even stopped to inform him of the fact, Mickey already felt an incredible difference, albeit a bit of soreness still as well, but a different soreness, a good one. Everything felt soft and smooth and loose, still tingling with the shivery little sparks that'd been left behind by whatever menthol like oil the other man had rubbed into his skin. Mickey was already beginning to think that thankfully, his trip had definitely been worth it after all. Then the redhead gave him one last slow, circling pinch into the smooth, meaty flesh beneath the other man's shoulders, and paused his fingertips against his skin, before he withdrew them. 

“Um, looks like the hour's up,” said Ian, and the near puddle of a man on the table beneath him groaned in a mixture of objection and acknowledgement, “Well, it was actually up about fifteen minutes ago, but it's cool,” he added lightly, sounding like maybe he was smiling again, “I'll still only charge you for the single hour,” he said. 

Mickey groaned again, but couldn't find the will to move at first, his back and body suddenly feeling far too much like a cross between putty and mush at the moment. But then then took a deep breath, found what little strength he could muster through freshly kneaded muscles and lifted himself into a push up, and stepped back off the table. Mickey then raised his arms, with a bend at the elbows and stretched his shoulders back, pushing his chest out for an instant, then gave his spin a bend to one side, twisting around to reach his other hip as he did.

Then it was in that moment, Mickey subtly noticed the redhead watching him as he stretched, seeing as a deep, green gaze moved down along his body, then looked away as if Ian had hoped not to be noticed and Mickey simply bit his tongue. Ian turned away, taking a few steps toward a hook that held his client's shirt on the back of the door grasped it, then turned back to return the article to it's owner. The other man took it and dressed. As the dark haired man focused on his buttons and straightened his collar, the redhead watched him again, this time a bit more expectantly and split a small, smug grin when Mickey met his eyes.

“So?” asked Ian, “Do you feel any better?” he queried innocently and gave the man a single blink. For a second, Mickey forgot himself and split a smirk back at the man, then almost immediately tried to fight it back down and instead offered him a sharp chin tip as he reached to grab his wallet. 

“Way too fuckin' soon to tell,” replied Mickey mirroring the other man's cocky expression, “Don't fuckin' flatter yourself just yet, man,” he warned, then flipped open his wallet, pulled out sixty dollars and handed it over to Ian. The redhead took the three crisp, green bills from his client and offered a small nod, the very same confident grin still stuck to his face and tilted his head. 

“You'll thank me eventually,” he predicted surely, “I guarantee it,” said Ian. Mickey fought down another smirk, feeling much better already than he'd ever admit right now and scoffed at him.

“Whatever, man,” said Mickey, then took a step toward the door as he rolled the ends of his sleeves back into their places, “See ya around.” 

“You know where I am,” Ian offered with a smile, to which Mickey shot him a final chin tip, thumbed his lip, then opened the door and strode quite comfortably back out to his truck. 

The entire drive back to his apartment, Mickey could not shake the lingering sensation of Ian's hands on his body, his strong, intentful palms and fingers, the way they seemed to so perfectly grip and grasp every single place they touched. All the chaos and pains he'd been so bothered by before were already faded and felt hardly less than an imprint now, spreading a wonderful feeling of relief throughout himself. Mickey actually smiled as he lit a cigarette and drove toward home, feeling so much looser and content than he’d had just a few hours before, actually feeling happy for a little while that night.

Then when he got home, it was still kind of early, but he didn't care, having his mind set on doing very few things for the rest of the fucking night. He went to the fridge and chugged a beer, then stripped off his clothes and hopped in the shower, making sure to run the water really, really hot and almost immediately Mickey turned his back tongue water, reached down and began to jerk off to the acts that were still fresh in his mind and on his skin.

He felt kind of ashamed for it, but he been so deprived lately that he just needed it, wanted it, so fucking badly, no matter how shameful it was. As he wrapped a fist around his cock and began to tug and stroke, he thought of the strength the redhead had when he'd pressed a firm rub down into his hips and circled his thumbs inside his tailbone, Mickey's breath growing heavier at the vision, the memory, recalling it so vividly. Then he remembered the firm grasp of Ian's palms as they smoothed back up to knead his fingertips into his shoulders and imagined what the sensation might feel like with a cock being shoved inside his ass while it happened. Mickey let out a small, breathy moan and came inside a hot, soaking fist, stuttering his breath and curling his toes, overtaken by release. 

After he finished and dried, he'd curled up beneath the covers of his bed and spread his limbs comfortably beneath their depths, tired, relaxed, content from everything that'd happened. Mickey had a feeling the next few days at work were going to be a breeze, he could tell that already as he settled in to fall asleep. And as he dozed off, his mind brought him back to those very same hands that now seemed imprinted into the molds and creases of Mickey's back, having left their mark and it would simply never be the same.

He smiled just slightly as his dreams soon filled with dark green eyes, bright red hair, smooth, pale skin scattered with freckles, and that grin that Mickey kinda sorta hoped he'd get to see again, if his back ever ended up hurting again that is.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had already started on this chapter when I posted the first 2 and just completed it, so I figured I would throw it up here! :)  
> This chapter involves Mickey, Mandy and Iggy.  
> I'm still editing, but I think it's okay.  
> Hope you enjoy! Please let me know what you think so far! :)

For the next week, Mickey felt great, at least physically he did. Ian's massage had definitely left a positive impact on his body which in turn helped his mood quite a bit and he needed it right now. His back wasn't sore and his shoulders didn't ache, giving him one less thing to stress about on top of everything his day to day life already did. They were a little behind schedule on the work site, which frustrated him and they'd recently lost Paul to a probation violation, so Mickey was stuck being the sole person working the forklift until he could find someone else with a license to operate it. He didn't want to take any chances at someone with inexperience possibly causing an injury on his watch, so dealt with it, because he was the boss.

They'd finally cleared out all of the crumbled, rubble from the structure that'd stood before and were now beginning to bring in more machinery and materials. Mickey had spread a blueprint out atop a work table, reading it over with a determined brow, a burning cigarette pressed between his lips and a pencil tucked snugly behind his ear as the deafening roar of machinery tore through the air around him. He glanced up at the large spread of activity across the sight, then turned his face back down, grasping his pencil to make a note along the edge of the print, just before he mirrored the same scribble atop his clipboard beside it when he felt a vibration erupt from his pants pocket. 

He jumped and his eyebrows shot up as he dropped his pencil and caught a small waft of smoke in his eye. Mickey cursed, pinched the filter between two fingers and flicked away, then reached down inside his pockets as one eye painfully clamped shut with a burn. He retrieved his phone, then squinted down toward it in annoyance, trying to blink the sting out from beneath his eye lid and read over the screen. Mandy was calling and Mickey rolled his eyes a bit, then pressed his lips together. He didn't answer, because he wouldn't be able to hear her where he was anyway, and instead let it go to voicemail and shot her off a text. 

‘On site. The fuck ya need?’ 

Mickey placed his phone face up on the table beside the blueprint, then looked back down at the large mapwork of lines and measurements, and slid a large metal ruler into position to double check a number. He picked his phone up once more once the screen lit up again. 

‘Isn't it lunch time yet?’ Mandy shot back, to which her brother frowned and flashed his eyes across the time. He sighed. 

‘Too fuckin busy for breaks today,’ he replied and set his phone back down. He groaned again when it instantly lit back up. 

‘You work too fucking hard,’ said Mandy and before he could reply another message came through: ‘We had plans asshole! I'm already waiting for you. Don't fucking blow me off.’ 

Mickey frowned when he read it, then tipped his head back to push a louder groan out into the blare, before he dropped it again, pulled his hard hat off and rubbed a flat palm through his hair. He knew she was right and that they did have plans, they always did and Mandy always had a way of making Mickey stick to them. He also wasn't going to just leave her hanging, sitting there waiting for him and eating lunch all alone. Despite their ups and downs, she was his sister and he loved her. 

So he called Patrick over on a walkie talkie and put him in charge of overseeing the site while he went on his lunch break a little earlier than normal, which he was as always more than happy to do. Then Mickey walked off site, hopped in his truck and drove about six blocks down to meet Mandy for lunch, something they often did now. Sometimes it was early mornings for coffee before either of them went to work, or even the occasional late night meal at a little diner they both liked that bordered the edge of both North and South side. Mickey honestly enjoyed the casual relationship he'd developed with his sister, as well as his brother Iggy, the only members of his family he still had anything to do with. Though a lot of that decision was Mickey's and he didn't regret it one bit. They'd been the only ones to accept him for who he is and he loved them for that more than anything. Mickey would do anything for either one of them in a heartbeat, no questions asked. That was why he couldn't turn Mandy down when she wanted to see he him and why he was going to see her now. Mickey owed her so much. 

He turned into the parking lot of a small taco hut that had a cramped little patio section shaded beneath giant, orange umbrellas alongside it, each pitch of fabric being forcibly tugged at by the wind. Before Mickey even parked, he instantly recognized a smiling face seated beneath one, with long black hair being whisped by the breeze, bold red lips and a bright blue margarita in front of her. His sister looked happy to see him show up and though Mickey would never admit it aloud, he's always glad he came. Mickey slid his truck into a space up close, turned it off and got out to meet Mandy as she sipped on her drink. Then as she lowered it she smiled again and tipped a pointed chin his way. 

“Good to see you big brother,” called Mandy, “You look well today,” she said. The man approached, then scoffed as he sat and gestured to her drink. 

“And you look like a fuckin' alcoholic,” quipped Mickey as he arched an eyebrow, “It's hardly past fuckin' noon,” he said. Mandy just laughed, took another sip of her drink and stared at him like he sounded ridiculous. 

“Maybe the pot should meet the kettle, huh Mick,” she cracked right back, then gave him an accusing point, “You're not gonna order a beer?” asked Mandy. The dark haired man placed his forearms atop the patio table, laced his fingers together and twiddled his thumbs a bit. 

“You know I'm tryin' to get better at not drinkin' on the fuckin' clock,” he replied lowly, thickly, almost through his teeth, but his tone held hardly any heat. His sister laughed again and leaned toward him a little bit. 

“I'm not a rat, Mickey,” she whispered in an exaggerated manner, then smirked at him, “I won't tell on you,” joked Mandy, to which Mickey simply flipped her off.

“Shut the fuck up,” he said. His sister laughed again, then traced the rim of her glass with a fingertip, lifted it to lick the salt from her skin and took another sip through a purse lipped grin. 

“Come on fuckface, have a drink with me,” Mandy urged, “One beer isn't gonna fucking kill you,” she smirked, then her expression dropped a bit as she looked at him and the wind caught her hair again, “Might end up needing it anyway,” she breathed. The man's brow crinkled at her words and a single eyebrow raised. 

“The fuck you talkin' about?” queried Mickey, but the woman didn't quite budge. 

“Just sit down,” Mandy directed instead, “Let's eat first,” she said, “I already have a couple quesadillas coming,” she informed him, managing a small smile that her brother didn't buy for a single second. But Mickey didn't push it, pressing his lips shut with a small huff and sat back in his seat across from her. 

Eventually their food came, they ate and Mickey did end up ordering only one beer, though he also had to swat his sister's hand away when she tried to force a wedge of lime through it's spout. As they swallowed down their meal, they chatted a bit, but not yet about whatever it was that was in his sister's head that seemed so goddamn important. Mickey wanted her to talk, but she seemed to be waiting, holding out until she was forced to speak, though he didn't know why. Instead she complained lightly about the residents she dealt with every day during her work as a nurse in the hospice center and how all the old men grabbed her ass all the time while all the old ladies wouldn't stop calling her a skank because of it. Mickey listened and nodded with a bored expression as he nursed his midday beer and chewed on a piece of quesadilla, not really interested in much of it at all. He wiped his hands with a napkin, pushed his plate aside and began fumbling through his pockets for his cigarettes when Mandy met his eyes and finally began to talk, dropping a complete and utter bombshell on him with the next thing out of her mouth.

“So, dad's getting out soon,” she said. 

Mickey froze with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, staring at his sister in a shocked and stony silence, like a deer caught in a set of headlights and the world suddenly felt like it was much darker than before. There was an entire eruption of different emotions firing off in his brain and it was almost as if it'd caused the rest of his body to short out for a second as her words hung heavy in the air and started ringing through his ears. ‘No,’ he thought. He was supposed to have more time than this and Mickey wasn't ready, refusing to go back to the life he'd left behind, if he was even still welcome in it at all. Or worse. This had to be a mistake. He stared another moment, his brain now trying to recall how to form proper words within it's suddenly blaring state and he felt his brow begin to burn.

“That's not possible,” Mickey managed just above a whisper and he blinked at her again. 

“It is, Mickey,” insisted Mandy with a serious expression, “It's fucking terrible, but it is,” she repeated, causing the man across from her to deeply furl his brow, then bared his teeth in a sudden burst of rage, his cigarette dropping from his mouth to roll across the table. 

“That's not fuckin' possible!” he growled out louder, turning a few heads and causing a few whispers. But Mickey didn’t give a shit who looked. He was pissed, curling his hands into hard, tight fists against the thin, black iron of the table top. Mandy raised her palm, gesturing for him to calm and leaned toward him again, speaking in a relatively leveled voice. 

“I don't fucking like it either,” said Mandy, “But you needed to know, because it's happening,” she said very seriously, looking at her brother like she shared the same worry, the same fear and kept her voice low, “I don't fucking know how he did it,” added Mandy, then pressed her lips back together in a very sour way, “But you know dad,” she stated flatly. 

Mickey still hadn't lit his cigarette, much too distracted by the pulse he felt flaring behind his eyes and he just tried not to shake with rage. He picked it up, chewed on the filter, rolling it nervously between his teeth, then pulled it back out from his mouth with a scowl. 

“How the fuck you find out about this?” asked Mickey, then felt his expression harden even further, “That motherfucker call you?” he pressed, but Mandy shook her head, then hesitated for a second and exhaled with a drop of her shoulders.

“No,” she replied, “He called Iggy,” said Mandy, causing the man's eyes to widen, and for a moment, Mickey actually thought he might explode. 

“The fuck you mean he called Iggy?” Mickey spat out incredulously, the anger in his voice thick and clear, and a deep, dark crease split through his brow, “When the fuck did that happen?” he asked further. She tilted her nearly emptied glass with her hand, rocking the base of it against the table, then tucked a single lock of long, black hair behind her ear. 

“I don't know,” replied Mandy, “A week ago, I think,” she said and Mickey just tried not to fume any more, then saw her shrug a shoulder, “He only told me about it yesterday though,” said Mandy.

“Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?” growled Mickey with fire in his gaze, “A whole fuckin' week ago,” he repeated with a scoff, “Well, when the fuck was he gonna tell me?” asked Mickey and his sister shrugged shyly once more.

“He wanted to tell you, said he just didn't know how,” explained Mandy, to which the man scoffed again, shook his head, then raised his cigarette back to his lips to light it and inhaled deeply, as if trying to calm his racing thoughts. He rubbed his brow, pulled another drag and glared across the table at his sister. 

“He only told you yesterday?” Mickey pressed slowly, needing to know if she was really, honestly telling the truth and Mandy gave a small meek nod. 

“Yeah Mick, I swear,” she promised, “Couldn't even fucking sleep last night after he told me. I wasn't about to keep this shit from you,” said Mandy, then pulled her own cigarette from her purse to spark and puff as well, flicking her ash to the ground as they sat in silence for a second, before she spoke quietly once more. 

“Please don't beat the shit out of Iggy over this,” Mandy requested softly, earning her another silent glare from the boiling hot gaze across from her, but she still leaned in a bit more, “Like I said, he wanted to tell you,” she reminded, then pressed her lips together in a thin flat line, “I think he was just scared of how you might react,” said Mandy and Mickey just scoffed again as he smoked his cigarette, “And about what's gonna fucking happen when dad actually gets out,” she said. Mickey let a very dark chuckle slip past his lips and he shook his head again, as he peered back across the table.

“You two don't have shit to fuckin' worry about,” countered Mickey in a very confident tone, “You've been outta that shithole house for years now and he's always fuckin' liked Iggs,” he offered, then finished off his last sip of beer and pulled more smoke from his cigarette, blowing it out through his nose in two thick plumes, “I'm the fuckin' one he wants dead,” he said. The woman shook her head and flicked her cigarette again.

“That's not true, Mick,” said Mandy, “If it were, you wouldn't be here now,” she said. Mickey stared at her quite flatly, blew his smoke in her face and arched an eyebrow. 

“No, if the fuckin' cops hadn't showed up when they did, I wouldn't fuckin' be here now,” he corrected firmly, “That didn't have shit to do with him,” he said, then flicked his filter to the ground, “All he did that night was try to crush my fuckin’ skull into the floor,” Mickey then curled his lip, thumbed his nose and looked out toward the rush of traffic beside them, “That ain't even considerin' all the shit he fuckin' did before that,” he breathed. His sister dropped her eyes and gave a single slow nod. 

“I remember,” said Mandy, then slid the tip of her finger back around the rim of her glass in silence for a moment, before her brother looked at her again.

“When the fuck is this happening?” asked Mickey causing the woman to offer another small shrug.

“I don't know,” Mandy replied, “I didn't ask,” she said, to which Mickey simply screwed up his face.

“The fuck you mean you didn't fuckin' ask?” Mickey shot back and Mandy upturned both palms with a very apologetically sympathetic expression. 

“I'm sorry,” she said, “I was kinda in fucking shock when he told me last night,” explained Mandy, causing Mickey to shake his head at her, then dropped his face a little to pinch the bridge of his nose with frustration and exhaled. The woman swallowed the last sip of her beverage, then puffed on her cigarette again, watching as her brother quietly battled with his own thoughts across the table and blinked in a very empathetic way. 

“Maybe you should go talk to Iggy,” suggested Mandy as her brother rubbed roughly at his brow, then dropped his hand down on the table top, “He knows way fucking more about everything than I do,” she said. Mickey remained silent for a moment, then sucked his teeth and began to nod, now moving to rise from the table.

“Yeah, I should,” Mickey agreed, then stood straight and reached for his wallet, fishing out a few dollars to cover their bill, dropping them on the table, “I'm gonna go fuckin' talk to him alright,” he said, sounding like the motive in his tone was just a tad ulterior and tucked his wallet back away, turning to walk from the table, back out to his truck. The woman slid his money toward her to pay with, then pushed her hair back behind her ear again as she called out behind him. 

“Please don't beat the fucking shit out of him, Mick!” yelled Mandy, but the man she was yelling at just kept his stride toward his vehicle, not at all bothering to look back, “He just didn't know how to tell you!” she tried, though Mickey just waved her off with a swatting motion behind his head, then jumped back in his truck to head back to the old house. 

On his way there, Mickey called Patrick and told him to cover things, that he had an important matter that needed to be handled immediately and Patrick didn't question him, just gave him confirmation that he would. As he drove, Mickey tried to calm, tried to think of what he was going to say to his brother when he got there, but he just kept getting madder and madder. He squeezed his hands around his steering wheel in a white knuckled grasp, baring his teeth and blinked hard a few times. 

“Fuck!” Mickey boomed, overcome with feeling of fear and rage and hopelessness, just needing to let some of it out for just an instant so he wouldn't unload it all onto Iggy. 

This wasn't supposed to happen now, not yet. He was supposed to be ready when this happened, but he wasn't, not now. He was supposed to have more time than this. Terry was supposed to get more time than this, but for some fucking reason it's been cut short and Mickey just tried so fucking hard to bottle up his urge to burst with utter panic. His hands shook against his grip, but if it was from anger or fear he didn't know. He just kept driving, stuck on autopilot as he began moving through streets that were sickeningly familiar and passed houses that made his pores begin to prickle in an anxiously uncomfortable way. 

Mickey hated being down here and avoided being so at all costs most days. He hated it just as much now as he did any other time, but today he had a reason to come whether he wanted to or not, as pissed as he was about it right now. He had some fucking words for his brother that simply wouldn't do over the phone. Mickey needed to see Iggy's face when he spoke to him and this was the only way. He glared hard through his windshield as he drove down his old street, getting closer to the very same crumbling heap he'd be stuck growing up in. There it was and Mickey frowned with a thick, dark scowl, staring at it with contempt as he rounded the corner and pulled in through the alley. 

About six years ago when their mother passed away, they'd learned she'd put out a life insurance policy on herself and would each be receiving a payout of a fairly hefty sum. When this happened, each of them chose to do different things with their money. Mickey held onto it for a while and eventually started his construction company. Mandy did something her brothers both thought no Milkovich would ever do and used it to go to college, eventually becoming the nurse that she now was. 

And then there was Iggy who had always had an interest in automotives, and he loved to build and work on cars. The logical answer for this when he received his money was to open a little auto body shop, which he did and ran it very well for a while. Then Iggy fell in love with a woman who also ‘loved' everyone else and he hit the bottle hard when he found out about it. During this low point for him, he ran his shop into the ground and was soon evicted from the property. But eventually Iggy put down the booze, brushed himself off and was back to his normal self, wanting to pick up where he left off just before some ungrateful slut ruined it all. But he'd burnt quite a few bridges and blew through a lot of his money by this time and the best he could do was beg Mickey to help him build a garage in the back that he could work out of under the table. Fortunately, but now perhaps unfortunately for him, Mickey agreed and here it stood, with the side door swung open and the faintest beat of music wafting out from inside, giving his older brother the hint that he was in there working, like he always was. 

Mickey held the very same heated gaze on the garage as he had on the house, pulling in slowly and turning his engine off. Then he took a deep breath, opened his door to step out and approached the garage doorway, arching his neck to take a look inside. There he saw his brother seated on a work bench, beside a car that was mostly in pieces, hunched over a busted fuel injector, fumbling around with it with dirty, greasy hands. Mickey held his frown, huffed through his nose and began walking further inside with much more intention, feeling the raging sting of betrayal rising back up behind his eyes and gave a quick whistle. 

“Sup, shithead!” announced Mickey, causing his brother to turn his face just as Mickey swung at him, not giving him a chance to answer. Iggy's eyes widened as he jumped to his feet and swerved his body out of the way. 

“Whoa, whoa, Mick, hey!” fumbled Iggy, but Mickey just bared his teeth and lunged at him again, “What the fuck!” he hollered, moving back again and dodging another hard, angry fist.

“The fuck is the matter with you, asshole?!” Mickey snapped as he tried to grab a hold of him, but his brother twisted around on nearly stumbling feet to avoid him. 

“What'd I do?!” Iggy asked as he jumped over a few random car parts, then rounded the dismantled vehicle nearby, trying to hide behind it some and put some space between them. But the dark haired man kept moving toward him, beginning to round it as well, causing Iggy to keep moving too, still trying to keep his distance with a confused and horrified expression on his face. 

“Terry fuckin' called you?!” accused Mickey, the words bringing a lace of realization to his brothers eyes, but Iggy didn't answer, not right away and it only made Mickey even angrier, “A whole fuckin' week ago and you haven't said shit?!” his voice bellowed through the small space and Iggy just shook nervously from the other side of the car, looking like he wanted to say something but wasn't sure what. Mickey held a heavy, furious breath, then pushed it out as he picked up a random wrench lying on the car's roof and whipped it across the garage at him as hard as he could, “What the fuck Iggs?!” he boomed, just as his brother ducked to avoid it. Then he stood back up, looking over at him and cautiously tipped his chin.

“You talked to Mandy already, huh?” asked Iggy like he didn't already figure that part out. 

At that Mickey simply exploded again, taking two quick, wide steps toward the front of the car and slid his ass across the hood to grab the other man by his shirt, causing him to stumble and fall as he tried to run away. His older brother landed on top of him and together they struggled as Iggy's hands smeared grease and oil all over the other man's shirt and Mickey just tried to hold him down while he did. He curled his fists into Iggy's chest, then leaned down to growl back into his face. 

“Give me one good fuckin' reason why I shouldn't snap your jaw right off your fuckin' face for keepin' this shit from me!” Mickey snapped and Iggy desperately tried to pry the other man's hands off of him. 

“I was gonna fucking tell you, man. I was,” replied Iggy as he tried to squirm, but Mickey only held onto him even tighter. 

“Bullshit!” Mickey spat, then pulled on him, sitting him up just a bit, but didn't let him go, “You have any kinda idea what that motherfucker's gonna do to me if he fuckin' finds me?” he queried in an extremely serious tone, the fearful prickle returning to his pores and gave the man a forceful shake, “You didn't fuckin’ think that I might want a little fuckin' heads up about this shit?” he barked. 

“I really was!” Iggy insisted, then limped his limbs just slightly with a very guilty crease running through his face, “I just didn't know how,” he said, mirroring Mandy's words from earlier, sounding like he was hoping Mickey would be sympathetic, but he wasn't. He was still just pissed. Mickey shook him again and leaned into his face.

“Gee Iggs, I don't fuckin' know. How 'bout somethin’ like, ‘Yo Mick, just wanted to let you fuckin' know that our child-rapin', faggot-murderin', psychotic fuckin' shit-heap of a father is gettin' outta prison four fuckin’ years early! Might wanna get your fuckin’ shit together before he does!’” Mickey offered angrily, still fuming with lava behind his eyes and his brother knew he was wrong for what he'd done. It was clear all over his face and he tried again. 

“It's not always that fucking simple with you, Mickey,” Iggy replied, then tipped his chin up at his brother, “You know you aren't the easiest fucking person to talk to sometimes, man,” he said. The other man sucked his teeth and narrowed his eyes. 

“I oughta smack you around like the little fuckin' bitch you are, Iggy,” Mickey threatened as he ground his teeth back together, “This ain't the kinda shit you just fuckin' sit on for a week,” he said, “You're supposed to have my fuckin' back,” Mickey's hands shook a little more, “You're my fuckin' brother, asshole,” he pushed through his teeth. 

His brother's hands grasped at his own, still trying to pull and peel them off of him, filthy black palms smearing the skin of Mickey's arms as they slid further up to try pushing him by the chest. But the man above him still didn't budge as Iggy's guilt and desperation suddenly seemed to overflow, and he then burst.

“You think I'm not?!” Iggy shot out from beneath him, sounding as if he'd suddenly become offended, “I've always had your fucking back and you know it!” he roared, then curled his hands into the collar of Mickey's shirt, grabbing hold of him in much the same way his brother had to him and peered straight into his eyes, “You may have been the one he was trying to beat to death, but don't you fucking remember who got beat down just as fucking bad for trying to stop him from doing it?!” queried Iggy with wide, red eyes and a sweat slicked brow. Mickey's eyes flickered and his lip twitched with agitation, but he said nothing, causing the man beneath him to pull him closer, now appearing quite angry himself, his own hands shaking as well, “Me!” Iggy forced the word up from his chest, “You didn't fucking go through that shit alone!” he spat.

Now it was Mickey who felt just a little bit guilty. He remembered alright and his brother wasn't wrong. The entire reason their father had been sent to prison on a twelve year sentence was not just for beating Mickey within an inch of his life, but he'd done the very same thing to Iggy as well for simply getting in the way. The difference was though, while Iggy may have simply been attacked for interfering, something that could eventually be forgivable, Mickey had been attacked for something entirely different. Terry had caught him engaged in something that was anything but forgivable in his father's eyes and he needed to be corrected, that there was something wrong with him that could be weeded out with force. Ever since then, Mickey knew that his father would never look at him the same, would no longer treat him like the son he had before and that he was always going to be an embarrassment and a shame, an ugly stain upon the family name that Terry would never let escape from his selfish, sadistic need to snuff it out completely. 

Mickey felt doomed and he knew that had nothing to do with Iggy, his stance slowly breaking and his hands released from the other man's shirt, trying not to suddenly let everything crumble down around him. The hopelessness was setting in again and his brother could see it painted all over his face as he let him go and took a small step back to catch his breath. Iggy remained where he lay for a moment with a pant, looking up at his brother and gave his head a small shake. 

“I'm fucking sorry, Mickey,” he said in a very sincere tone, then dropped his eyes shamefully to the floor, “I shoulda fucking let you know right after he fucking called me,” breathed Iggy, “I'm a fuckhead for not doing that,” he said.

The dark haired man didn't say anything, trying much too desperately not to break any further but wasn't sure how long he would last as he felt his eyes begin to burn and he took another step back, bumping into Iggy's work bench, then slid down to sit like a puddle on the floor. Then they just looked at each other in silence for a moment, sharing the same fear, the same worry, the same feeling of impending doom, before Mickey finally managed to speak. 

“The fuck am I gonna do, Iggs?” Mickey's voice cracked and he felt his face turning red again but this time from despair, trying so very hard not to let it out in front of Iggy, but he was failing horribly. He sniffed and refused to let his eyes form tears as they began to burn even more, “He's gonna fuckin' hunt me down and kill me, man,” he said. Iggy shook his head. 

“He's never gonna fucking find you, man,” countered Iggy, “You've got more fucking money saved than any of the rest of us,” he said, then moved to finally sit up, “Still plenty of fucking time to disappear if that's still what you plan to do,” Iggy added with a pointed brow, then tipped his head, “And you know I'm not telling that motherfucker shit if he asks me about it,” he said, and Mickey kept looking at him through the sting in his gaze, “I don't give a shit what he tries to do,” claimed Iggy, then looked at him in a very serious way, “I am your fucking brother, Mickey. And I'll always have your back. That's never gonna fucking change,” he assured, “We can do this. You can do this,” he said. 

His older brother pressed his lips together, gave another sniff and looked away as he silently gnawed the inside of his lip, then gave his nose a rub. Iggy waited and was patient as Mickey peered vaguely across the space at nothing in particular, taking a moment to collect himself, watching as he rubbed the burn from his eyes with the heels of his palms and finally looked back over. 

“How the fuck is this even possible?” asked Mickey with a blink, “That son of a bitch was supposed to get twelve fuckin' years and it's only been eight,” he stated, then gave a weak shrug and a frustrated chin tip, “Who the fuck did he pay off?” he wondered, not imagining his father slipping through the cracks any other way, but the blonde man shook his head again. 

“Nah, apparently Terry's been a model fucking inmate,” revealed Iggy, to which Mickey simply screwed up his face in skeptical disbelief, refusing to believe such a thing for a single fucking second, but his brother kept talking, “I didn't fucking believe it either. Old man hasn't shanked anybody or anything the whole fucking time he's been in there apparently,” he said, though Mickey's expression remained. “And I guess they're dealing with some fucking overcrowding too. So he got put on the short list to get cut loose,” informed Iggy and Mickey just couldn't fucking believe it.

He scoffed, shook his own head, then let it drop, combing his fingers back along his scalp with an exhale. This was really happening and there was fuck all he could do about it except improvise. But Mickey still just wasn't ready yet, not quite and that just made everything that much harder for him to work out on such short notice. He was depending on the payout from his project once it was completed to even begin considering disappearing the way he'd always planned, as much as he always hated the thought of selling his business and leaving it behind. Mickey didn't ever really think he had any other choice. But now he needed to really fucking buckle down and figure out what he was going to do. He just needed a time frame. Mickey let his arm drop and raised his head just slightly, but let his eyes remain on the floor.

“How fuckin’ long?” he asked quietly. 

“Couple months,” replied Iggy and Mickey pressed his eyes shut tight. 

There wasn't enough time either and now he just felt hopeless again, worried again, fucking terrified again and he just tried to push it all down, refusing to break about it again right now. Then he tipped his head back, another scoff pushing through his lips and he managed a weak, pathetic chuckle at how fucking shitty his luck was, then exhaled once more as he opened his eyes again. He looked at his brother and his brother looked back, then he blinked quite sadly. 

“I'm a fuckin' dead man, Iggs. I'm tellin' ya,” breathed Mickey, the sucked in his lower lip as his brow knitted with despair. 

Iggy held his gaze, then rose from the floor to cross the room toward his older brother, before hunching down in a squat to look him straight in the face and reached to grasp his shoulder in a hard, firm palm. 

“We'll figure this shit out, Mickey,” he told him and Mickey could only look, “Don't fucking write yourself off just yet,” advised Iggy. 

Mickey really wasn't sure how much faith he had in that, but he trusted his brother and his sister, and he was in no position to argue with him, not that he had strength for it anymore anyway. His clock was ticking now, he could feel it in his veins, syncing with the pulse that filled his ears and lingered just along the back of his mind. Mickey had an overwhelming feeling that his days were now numbered and there was nothing he could do about it. He already felt like he was a shadow of the person he'd fought so hard to become, like his insides were hallowing and his blood was running dry. Mickey felt fucked and he knew it.

Then he shut his eyes and dipped his head again, just needing another moment to shut himself away from the world, when a sudden bolt of pain shot down through his back. But Mickey couldn't even bring himself to react to it, almost relishing the feeling just by knowing that whatever was to come was bound to be so much worse. The pain also brought upon him the memory of big, strong hands pressing over his skin, smoothing it out and kneading into the flesh around it, though not even such an enjoyable thought could stray the rest of his mind from its looming drench of dread and he felt his hands curl back into fists. 

How Mickey wished he could go back to the unknowing bliss he'd lived his life with just a few days before, but it already felt so fucking far away with this new found knowledge now sitting so very heavily on his shoulders. Things had to change and he couldn't afford any distractions. Because he definitely couldn't afford his life becoming even more complicated than it'd already just become. Not for anybody or anything. And that's just the way it had to be.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey is struggling, but Ian's touch heals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a new chapter for you!  
> Still editing though, so please bear with me. <3  
> It's the longest yet, but not too bad I don't think.  
> Please don't hesitate to share your thoughts with me!  
> I love feedback! :)  
> Hope everyone enjoys it! :)

Mickey was a fucking wreck and had been for days. He couldn't focus at work and he couldn't relax, much too paranoid and on edge to even try. The little moments of satisfaction and enjoyment he once had as tasks became completed around the work site no longer seemed to be there. They were always shadowed over by the lingering dread that had stained itself into the back of his mind and Mickey was getting more and more frustrated with it. 

There had to be another way out for him, something he could do, but Mickey felt at a loss, really not knowing at all how he was going to deal with his father roaming the streets again. One advantage he had was the fact that Mickey no longer lived in Southside and hadn't for years, getting out of there the moment he'd received his mother's inheritance. It may have began as a one room rat hole with no toilet and nothing but a hot pad to cook with, located on the teetering edge of the Northside, but it was far enough away that it'd eased Mickey's mind just the slightest bit. Then as his company grew so very rapidly, almost over night and he began to earn more, he'd upgraded, now living in a building with a door man posted at the entrance and bubble jets in his bathtub. Mickey had earned that, really earned that and deep down, he really didn't want to give it all up. It was his. But what could he do? Apparently the world was just fucking cruel and the reminder of the fact only depressed him even more.

Mickey wasn't sure if he had a way out anymore, because no matter how much he wished the fact weren't true there just wasn't enough time for him to do much of anything about this whole thing. He could just pick up and leave now, but such a choice would eventually fuck him over too and he knew that. He couldn't disappear and be stable wherever he went, Mickey wasn't ready, no matter how much he wished he was. This was going to be bad, really bad and he could fucking feel it.

The biggest disadvantage he has is that his entire project site is located in Southside, not terribly far from his old block, his old house, the place where his father will be living once again upon his release, just a few streets away. This was a losing battle and no matter how hard he tried, Mickey couldn't shake that feeling either. The entire thing had caused him to be distracted as well, staring off into the distance, caught on a pondering or terrified train of thought when he'd suddenly catch himself and snap out of it. Mickey even pulled his flask back out from the top drawer of his dresser, a spot where it's stayed for nearly two years, filled it with whiskey and began carrying it with him again. He'd sneak sips here and there whenever he had a chance alone to help him take the edge off, to help him relax and it did, but only just a little. 

For the whole week, Mickey had been ruthlessly short tempered and quick to snap on his employees, so most started to out right avoid him whenever possible, everyone except Patrick, who was used to his boss' occasional spouts of hostility. But even Patrick could tell something was different about Mickey's particular mood lately, even if he didn't know what the fuck it was all about. He tried to ask a few times, but the dark haired man had been quick to shut him down and didn't reveal a thing, so Patrick never pushed it. 

Then one afternoon Mickey was driving the forklift across site and rounded the corner of a small but freshly cemented dividing wall much too sharply, chipping and scraping one long, metal prong against it and left a deep, crooked gash behind. Thankfully not many were near him when he did it and no one noticed, though Patrick did. He'd also caught half a glimpse of Mickey just a few hours earlier when the man had walked out to his truck claiming the need to retrieve something but instead had seen him take a rather long swig from his shiny little pocket flask. He hadn't said anything because Mickey was not one to get drunk on the job, but now Patrick was second guessing himself. 

Mickey cursed when he drove into the corner and turned the engine off with a huff and a brow rub, clearly frustrated and unfocused, then climbed down to assess the damage. Patrick frowned at the sight, took a quick glance around to make sure no one else was paying too close attention, then began making steps to go and speak with him before he had a chance to start the forklift back up. He pulled his pen and note pad from his tool belt to make an attempt at being discreet and quickened his pace a bit. 

“Yo, Boss!” called Patrick, to which the dark haired man swayed just the slightest bit as he heard his voice and turned his face. The other man gestured to his pad with his pen, “Got a new material shipment due to drop today. Just need ya to double check some numbers for me,” he said. Mickey looked blank and gloomy with a frown stuck to his face, but tipped his chin, took a step back from the forklift and waited. When Patrick approached he lifted his blank note pad and lowered his voice.

“You feeling alright?” he asked quietly with the slightest lacing of concern in his tone, but the other man just creased his brow with perplexity and shrugged him off.

“I'm fuckin' fine,” replied Mickey with a grumble, but Patrick wasn't convinced and pressed a bit more with a raise of an eyebrow.

“You sure?” queried Patrick, “You've been acting off for days, man,” he noted, then tipped his chin toward him, “And today you just look like shit,” he said, earning him nothing more than a swift middle finger in return. 

“Fuck off,” Mickey scoffed thickly, then gave him a quick flash up and down with his eyes, before he arched his brow high and gestured to him with an upturned palm, “You actually fuckin' need somethin’ right now Pat, or are you just wanderin' around bein' fuckin' nosy?” he asked. Patrick frowned, then tilted his head as he lowered his note pad and looked right into his face. 

“I need you to be fucking straight with me, Mickey,” Patrick continued sternly, seriously, refusing to let his boss potentially fuck something up that's he's bound to regret later and tried to stay quiet as he spoke and his eyes flickered over the other man's blue, glossy gaze, “You been drinking today?” he asked and Mickey suddenly got quite defensive, hardening his expression and scoffing at him.

“Alright, now you really do need to fuck off with this shit, man,” Mickey said, then offered half a smirk, “Go find someone else to fuckin' bother,” he advised with a loose wave of his hand, then began to turn his body back toward to forklift when Patrick tried to stop him again with a hand on his shoulder. 

“Mick, you can't get back up there if you've been sippin' on the sauce today, man,” insisted Patrick, causing Mickey to turn his face back with a scowl. 

“Says fuckin' who?” Mickey spat back with a challenging glare, and his voice raised a little louder, not at all moving to step away from the forklift, but Patrick persisted. 

“I do,” he replied, standing firm, causing the other man's eyes to widen at his gaul, and almost instantly Mickey went from mildly annoyed to simply fucking pissed as he narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Why don't you fuckin' try again, man,” he snapped, then leaned a little closer to his face, “Don't think I fuckin' heard you quite right,” he said, giving him an out, but Patrick was one brave son of a bitch. 

“I said you're not driving the fucking forklift any more today, Mick,” the man rephrased for clarity, his tone still stern, firm and serious, not budging an inch, and the other man felt his teeth grind together as he fought to control his temper, “I know you're not fit to operate it right now and you know it too,” said Patrick as he held his stance, his voice still leveled and low, “I'm not trying to make a fucking scene about it out here, but the shit isn't up for discussion, man,” he stated very clearly, but Mickey wasn't backing down very easily either and took a slow step closer to him with a heated, curled brow, glaring hard into his face. 

“I don't know who the fuck you think you're fuckin' talkin' to right now,” warned Mickey, “But just in case your ass fuckin' forgot or some shit, lemme fuckin' clarify it for you,” he said, then pointed to his own chest with his thumb, “I’m the fuckin' boss, not you and not anybody else,” he informed him with emphasis, then pointed at Patrick, “You're my fuckin' subordinate,” reminded Mickey with his brow raised high, “I'm the only motherfucker that says what goes and what fuckin' doesn't around here,” he spat, then sucked his teeth and tipped his brow, “Know your fuckin' place, Pat,” he said.

With that, Mickey really thought that was going to be the end of it, ready to turn around and resume his work, but Patrick was still standing there. He was still looking at him, frowning at him, making no move to cower, back pedal or begin to walk away. Instead he stayed right where he was, even stood up a little straighter and held his chin up with the same serious and leveled composure he had when he approached. Then he caught Mickey off guard a little. 

“What is my fucking place, Mick?” asked Patrick rather calmly and the other man wasn't sure what he meant, saying nothing as his employee looked him over then gave a long, studying glance around the work site, “You put me here,” he added, then looked back at his boss, “Five fucking years and I've always been straight with you. I've never sugarcoated shit for you or anyone else,” Patrick said, “Isn't that why you put me here in the first place?” he queried further and Mickey's expression flickered only just the slightest bit, “When have I ever bullshit you about anything?” then he exhaled with a bit of frustration when the other man stayed silent, just before he tucked his note pad away, slid his pen back behind his ear and upturned a palm. 

“I'm not asking you to explain shit. You don't gotta explain shit,” assured Patrick, then titled his head, “But whatever the fuck has been going on with you all week can't be spilling over into what we’re fucking doing here and you know that shit as well as I do,” he explained.

Mickey's anger slowly faded as he listened, instead beginning to focus on not slipping back into the dread, being reminded of his ever impending doom, but he still didn’t speak. He knew he'd taken a few more sips from his flask today than he should have, but figured he could work it off. Obviously he'd been wrong in that prediction and being confronted about it was a little embarrassing, even if he was much too stubborn to verbally admit any of that. Mickey hated being wrong, but he couldn't argue with the other man about anything he'd said because it was all true, causing his stance to drop just slightly. Patrick looked back up at the active site around them, checking to make sure there were still unnoticed by any workers below them, then peered back over at Mickey who suddenly began to look gloomy and blank once again. 

“I'll take over the forklift, fix this shit up, and watch over everything,” he said, “You go home and do whatever the fuck it is you need to do to get your fucking head straight,” advised Patrick, then gave his head a flick, “Then sober the fuck up and get back here on Monday,” he directed. 

He paused in wait as the other man's demeanor very, very slowly turned to acceptance. But Mickey was suddenly more depressed again than anything else, not wanting to be alone with his thoughts, without a distraction, even if deep down he knew Patrick was right. Though he refused to let himself crack and break in front of the man either, not in front of anyone and rehardened his face with his gaze keeping a pointed narrow on Patrick and pointed a finger at him.

“No one but you steps foot on this fuckin' thing, you hear me?,” Mickey said with a gesture toward the machinery, and Patrick nodded in return, “And if anything fuckin' happens that ain't supposed to, you fuckin' call me the second it does. Or I'm gonna have your ass and anyone else's involved,” he ordered, to which the other man looked thankful and relieved, then gave another single nod.

“Of course,” Patrick replied easily, “Always do,” he said, then cocked his head a little smugly, “I got it covered though Mickey,“ assured Patrick, then tipped his brow out toward the other man's truck, “Don't fuckin' worry about shit here,” he said, just before shooting another glance back out toward the other man's vehicle once more, “You okay to drive? I could-,” Patrick offered, but Mickey was quick to cut him off. 

“I got it,” Mickey stated with surety, knowing he was pretty fucking buzzed, but not quite drunk and as long as he drove slow and paid attention, he'd be fine. Then he sighed at Patrick, “Fine,” he finalized, “I'm goin',” said Mickey, then just before he turned away from the other man's satisfied expression he pointed at him once more, “But don't start thinkin' you fuckin' run shit ‘cause of this, Pat,” he warned firmly, “You still don't.” The other man brought two fingers to the brim of his hard hat and gave a very lame, half assed salute. 

“Sure thing, Boss,” said Patrick. 

Mickey stared at him another moment, part of him still hesitant to leave even though being in his current state of mind, he knew it probably best that he should, not wanting to take the risk of fucking up anything else either. So, he gave him one last up and down, then took a quick peer around the site, before tipping his chin and turning to walk out toward his truck, the re-emerging fog of dread trailing along behind him. He unlocked his truck, removed his hard hat, then threw it in the seat across from him as he climbed in, fumbled with his keys for a second and started the engine to make his way home. 

When Mickey got there he wanted to crack open a beer, but decided against it, and instead he simply kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned his shirt and walked into his bathroom. His showers were his solace and Mickey savored them more than he could ever fully describe. He never often had the luxury of hot water growing up, but as soon as he'd moved out and eventually worked his way into this apartment, Mickey now possessed something that so many other people take for granted. And he took advantage of it, he still does, taking long, hot, steamy showers as often as he possibly could. It was the only place Mickey ever felt that he could truly unwind in a way he never could any other way. 

This is what he did now, running the water hot and fogging up the room with thick, heavy steam, exhaling as he closed his eyes and let the boiling liquid flow down his back. The aches and pains beneath his skin had started flaring again the last couple days, but only once in a while, though this always seemed to help, just the way it did with so many other things. As Mickey stood alone beneath the stream, he washed his body, kept his eyes shut, then tipped his head back into the water and just tried to breathe, hoping the burn from the flow would wash away all the awful thoughts as it laced through his scalp. It was working a little bit, but not as much as he liked, not as much as it should, then decided on another possible distraction that never seemed to fail him lately and dropped a single hand to grasp his cock. 

Mickey tried to take his mind back to the sensations he’s felt just a over a week ago, the feeling of a strong, firm grip pressing down on his body, grasping at his muscles as they moved down along his back. He thought of green eyes, red hair, smoothly toned muscles and freckles, so many fucking freckles and his eyelids clamped tighter as his fist found it's pace. But then his mind wandered a little further and his breath fell heavy as it did. 

As Mickey pumped his hand, he began to wonder just exactly how toned the redhead's muscles were beneath his clothes, imagining how hard, meaty thighs might feel wrapped around his ass and if the other man's skin was as smooth as it looked. His breath stuttered and his hand sped up as a crease appeared along his brow, reaching his other hand out with a craving for warm flesh, but was instead met by the cold, water-beaded tile of the wall in front of him. Mickey's eyes opened at the contact and his fist slowed as the images in his mind faded into disappointing reality, then groaned as he let go of himself and dipped his head back beneath the shower head. 

It just wasn't enough for him right now, for some reason, and Mickey couldn't put his finger on why. He was used to being alone, didn't even go out for random hook ups too often anymore and he'd been content with that for quite a while now. But now it was different. He had an itch and an ache, a craving that his hand alone couldn't seem to bring him in this moment and it frustrated Mickey to no end, groaning once more as the water washed down over his body and swirled down the drain between his feet. He needed more. 

It was tough though, as Mickey had already made the decision to stay out of Southside as much as he possibly could, even if his father still wasn't out of prison yet. So venturing down there isn't as bad as it could be, as bad as it would be, much too soon. He'd also made the decision to refrain from relationships, friendships, even mere interactions that weren't necessary just so he could stay under the radar for when the man's release date finally did come, something he'd decided years ago, but really wanted to enforce in himself now more than ever. He still couldn't let himself get too distracted. 

But after his session with Ian, as much he would probably never admit it aloud, it was hard not to at least consider going back to see him again, even under the circumstances. Especially with his father still locked away, Mickey didn't feel nearly as nervous or afraid to indulge in his proclivities, even if it's in just the slightest way, and he could actually have the potential of relaxing enough to enjoy it. He also tried to convince himself that the arrangement he'd made with Ian wasn't of a personal or intimate nature anyway. It was a business transaction, a service rendered, a professional he was simply paying to preform a duty and this seemed to help convince Mickey even more that it was something worth making the trip for, like he needed the excuse. This distraction was okay.

He ran his face beneath the water a final time, just before bending to twist the knob and shut it off, then stepped out from the shower. Mickey dried, then walked out of the room with his towel around his waist, still silently trying to convince himself to get dressed and drive down to the Red Swan to see Ian. The dark haired man cursed under his breath as he slicked his hair out of his face with his fingers, then fished his little metal flash out of his work pants to take a small sip for courage and quietly told himself to quit being a bitch. 

Mickey finally dressed as he embraced the warming buzz the bit of booze brought back through his veins, picking out something a little nicer than he'd worn before, but still looked casual like he hadn't just spent twenty minutes deciding which shirt he should wear, even though he'd be taking it off anyway. Then Mickey stood in his mirror and smirked to himself with a little more confidence, just before he grabbed his keys, went back downstairs and climbed back inside his truck. 

During the drive there, Mickey wasn't nearly as nervous as he had been last time, but it was probably just the sip from his flask that helped with that, though it still lingered just a little bit. He was actually kind of anxious, almost a little excited as he thought about seeing the redhead again, about seeing Ian again, and drove a little faster than he probably should of, not wanting to lose his nerve while he had it. 

By the time he arrived, the afternoon had started to dim and the sky rouged as it turned into evening as he parked his truck as close to the door as he could manage, not wanting to waste any more time. Mickey stepped out from his vehicle, took a small breath of preparation, then rolled his shoulders back, cracked his neck and managed a very nonchalant strut into the building. 

He held his chin up as he passed through the entry way and began to approach the front desk that had the very same woman seated behind it as before, not paying much attention to his arrival with her eyes turned down, reading some random piece of paper in front of her. But she seemed to hear the man's steps and turned in her chair but didn't yet raise her eyes as she greeted him. 

“Hello,” the woman said just like she had before, “Welcome to the Red Swan,” she continued, then finally looked up to meet Mickey's eyes and paused her introduction. 

“Oh,” she said instead, “Welcome back, I should say,” the woman corrected with a smug raise of her brow, but Mickey didn't let her expression phase his mildly inebriated determination and strode right up to her desk arching an eyebrow of his own. 

“Redhead workin' again tonight?” he queried lowly, to which the receptionist smiled and gave a nod. 

“He is,” she confirmed simply, but said nothing more, just looking at him, smiling at him and waiting to see what else he was going to say. Mickey glanced toward the hallway that he knew Ian's room was located at the end of, but refrained from peeking down it's length and instead thumbed his lip, then upturned a very impatient palm. 

“He fuckin' busy right now or somethin'?” Mickey asked further, keeping his stance and refusing to appear uncomfortable or embarrassed in front of someone he didn't know, “I don't got all fuckin' night,” he said, lying a little bit. 

The woman pursed her lips, then rubbed them together with a slight smearing of her lipstick, then looked away to take a glance down at a clipboard nearby. She scanned the sheet on top with a pointed forefinger, then paused before she met his eyes again. 

“It appears that he's with a client right now,” she replied, causing the man's chest to swell with a bit of disappointment. But then she peered over her shoulder toward the clock on the wall and turned back around with another smile, “But they should be finishing up any moment here,” she added and the disappointment faded just as quickly. She then extended a hand toward the little waiting area beside them, “You may have a seat while you wait if you'd like,” the woman offered politely. 

Mickey chewed his lip as his eyes followed her gesture, but didn't yet move, really not wanting to sit amongst the few other men that sat in wait and shifted his feet a bit. Then just as he began to relent and turned his body to walk over and sit down, his ears were suddenly struck by a handsomely familiar voice at the other end of the hall. So instead, Mickey took a single step the other way, then arched his back to peer down the narrow length of the corridor and that's when he saw him. 

Emerging for the last door on the left was Ian, with the very same head full of flaming hair and spattering of freckles spread over his skin that Mickey had envisioned just a short while earlier and his breath slowed at the sight of him. He was very casually dressed wearing a t-shirt that seemed to fit him fucking perfectly, clinging to his chest and muscles in all the right ways, and sweatpants that hung loosely on his legs. He looked fucking perfect and Mickey couldn't help but stare, watching as he very carefully escorted an elderly woman out from his massage room, walking slowly beside her and tentatively held onto her thin, frail hand that she had wrapped around his arm. 

The pair took a few more small steps just before Ian raised his face and met Mickey's eyes down the hallway, his face almost instantly pulling up into a rather surprised smile, then offered a silent, but welcoming greeting with a wave of his palm. The dark haired man swallowed at the other man's expression and gesture, but the lingering buzz from his booze that remained coursing through his veins drowned out his nerves and he offered a small chin tip in return. Mickey then shot a glance back toward the receptionist, who still sat behind her desk, watching him with question in her gaze, when he flicked his head and pointed with his thumb. 

“Looks like they're fuckin' done already,” mentioned Mickey, to which the woman raised her brow, then stood to peer around the corner and down the hall as well. Then she made a bit of an ‘Oh' face, leaned back, then rounded her desk to meet them. 

“I'll just give them a little help with that,” she said as she walked past Mickey toward the pair in the hallway, holding out an offering hand to lead the woman instead just when she got close enough. The older woman smiled at the offer and gladly accepted, the redhead now carefully handing her off. 

“Be sure to take it easy on that ankle now, okay Mrs. Harris?” advised Ian as the old woman released him and she replied with a small smile and nod, then let herself be led away, “You have a good evening,” he called, then turned his sights back on dark haired man in wait, shooting him another smile. 

Mickey held his gaze, trying not to appear antsy or impatient, just before Ian gave his head a pointed tip toward his room, and gestured with a single hand for the other man to come with him. Mickey chewed his lip a little, but went, allowing the alcohol he'd drank to fuel what little confidence he still had, walking down the corridor and up to the tall, handsome redhead that was now waiting for him instead. As he approached, Ian's gaze seemed to linger a bit, taking him in as he got closer, then let his eyes raise up once more. 

“Back so soon?” Ian queried with a head tilt and the other man just shrugged. 

“Guess you're just not as fuckin' good as you think you are,” replied Mickey, refusing to reveal his real opinion of the other man's services. But Ian merely held the tilt of his head, pulled a sly smirk at his reply and looked at him quite skeptically. 

“Then why come back at all?” Ian asked further with a smug blink and a small chuckle on his lips. The other man chewed his lip again, but didn't quite break, offering the redhead only a slight explanation. 

“Well, the shit wasn't completely fuckin' terrible,” Mickey responded vaguely with another shrug, seeing the man appear to enjoy that response, fueling Mickey's confidence, then shot him just the slightest smirk of his own, “Figured I'd give ya one more fuckin' shot at it,” he said. 

Ian held his eye contact as his smirk rose back up into a grin that Mickey couldn't help but admire just a little, then tipped his head once more toward his room just a few doors down and nodded at the challenge.

“Let's do it then,” grinned Ian. Mickey rolled his tongue beneath his lip, gave a small, single nod, then followed him down the hall to do just that. 

When they approached the door, Ian waved Mickey inside, then entered behind him, shutting the door as he went. He smoothed his hands together in preparation, sanitized them from a small pump beside the door, then moved to face his client beside the massage table, placing a single hand down atop it and began tapping it lightly with his fingertips. 

“So, if it's just your back again, we could do the same deal as before?” Ian queried as he held his smile, “Unless there’s a different area you'd like me to focus on instead?” he asked. 

Mickey looked at him in silence for a short moment, considering the man's question and really started to think about what exactly it was the he wanted from Ian. The massage he'd received before had been nothing short of incredible, but Mickey wasn't sure if that would be enough for him, not tonight. He briefly thought of his earlier frustrations in the shower and with the liquor still hazing his judgement just the slightest bit, for half a second Mickey actually considered asking him about ‘special services,’ wondering what the man had to offer in that arena. But he decided against it, not wanting to do too much that he might regret later, though Mickey had another idea on his mind as well, one that he may not be quite as likely to regret. He thumbed his lip and looked down toward the massage table. 

“How much is it for the full fuckin' thing?” he asked back lowly and Ian seemed a little confused by the question. 

“Full thing?” he repeated curiously with a slight raise of his eyebrow. The dark haired man rolled his tongue behind his cheek and bit down on it nervously, but refused to let himself back down now and looked back into Ian's face for just a second before looking away again. 

“Ya know,” said Mickey, “More than just my fuckin' back,” he elaborated quietly, which then seemed to click with the redhead and he understood now, but didn't look very convinced of the question considering how awkward Mickey felt last time, tilting his head again. 

“You want a full body massage,” Ian clarified for him, causing the other man to hesitate, then tip his chin just slightly in return, still struggling not to feel awkward and really fucking wishing he'd brought his flask down here with him right about now. Then the redhead gave a point toward the changing divider in the corner of the room. 

“You know you'll have to strip and wear a towel for that, right?” Ian asked to make sure. Mickey ran the tip of his tongue across his bottom lip, met the other man's gaze once more and gave a small nod. 

“Yeah, I know,” he replied, then creased his brow just slightly as his impatience slowly began seeping back out of his pores and he tipped his chin again, “How fuckin' much?” Mickey asked again. 

The redhead looked a little surprised, but seemed to accept his request judging by his expression, watching as he thought for a short moment and looked him over again. Mickey was glad now that he'd made an effort to wear something a little nicer, which Ian seemed to approve of as his eyes traced down over him once more. Then he met Mickey's eyes again and split a small, handsome smirk. 

“That sixty I mentioned is a flat rate,” replied Ian, then shrugged a single shoulder, “Don't really see a reason to change it,” he smiled, green eyes twinkling between blue. 

Mickey thought for an instant that maybe there was more behind the other man's gaze, the way Ian's eyes seemed to soften just a bit when they connected with his own, but then he reminded himself that he'd also been drinking a little bit today and just may not be seeing him as clearly as he normally would. So he brushed it off pretty quick and just tried not to look too closely. He then tipped his chin and reached for his wallet, opting to pay up front this time and handed Ian sixty bucks. The redhead accepted his payment, keeping his eyes on Mickey's as he took it, then turned to gesture back to the corner again. 

“Back there I have a shelf where you can put your clothes,” Ian said, “And there's a rack with fresh towels for you to use,” he continued, then turned his face back to his client, “Just take your time and come lay down when you're ready,” he directed with the very same smile still stuck to his face. Mickey rolled his tongue behind his cheek once more, then tipped his chin a final time, concealing his nerves that kept trying to fight there way back into his mind, before moving to walk the short space across the room. 

When he got behind it, his eyes traced the towel rack, then moved over to the little empty shelf beside it and took another slow breath as he heard the redhead rummaging through bottles of lotions and oils just on the other side. Then Mickey reached for the buttons of his shirt and began unfastening them rather slowly, now trying to control how anxious he suddenly felt, despite his nerves, how secretly excited he actually was to feel the other man's hands on him. He fucking needed it. 

Mickey finished undressing all the way down to his bare skin, folded his clothes and placed them on the little square shelf nearby, then wrapped a clean, white towel snugly around his hips, before very hesitantly emerging from behind the divider. The instant he did, the redhead turned with a blue bottle of oil in his hand, then met his eyes and took another quick glance down the length of his body, before his gaze immediately shot back up as if he'd suddenly remembered that they were in a professional setting and he knew what he'd just done wasn't appropriate. Though the dark haired man didn’t mind, actually kind of enjoying the slight lace of appeal Ian seemed to have in his eyes for just that brief instant, but he brushed it off again and shot a glance toward the massage table instead. Ian looked as well, then gestured toward it with his empty palm. 

“I thought we could start face up, then finish face down,” offered Ian, “That way I can take a little extra time to work on your back near the end,” he said, then peered back over at Mickey with a questioning expression, looking to see if he approved of this suggestion or not, “What do you say?” he asked. 

But the other man didn't answer verbally, instead he simply flashed him a small glance, then moved to lay down on his back atop the table, ready to get this shit started. Ian seemed to hesitate, but only for second, then began walking toward the other end of the massage table, down by the other man's feet and popped open the cap of the bottle in his hand. 

“I usually start from the bottom and work my way up,” Ian informed, then made a brief spinning motion with his forefinger, “Then I'll have you flip over and do the same on your other side,” he explained, then curiously raised his brow, “Sound good?” Ian queried. ‘Abso-fucking-lutely,’ thought Mickey, but instead he just offered a very uncommitted shrug. 

“You're the fuckin' professional, man,” he replied. The redhead smirked at him, then tipped his chin as he began to dribble a bit of oil into his palm. 

“You can close your eyes, or keep them open,” Ian added, “Whatever you're comfortable with,” he said. 

Mickey sort of wanted to keep them open, but as he watched the redhead lubricating his hands and getting ready to begin rubbing them into his skin, Mickey suddenly thought it best he close them, so he could focus better on relaxing and not getting aroused during the session. So, he did, as vulnerable as it made him feel not to see what was happening, then gasped through a breath as he felt Ian's hands grasp around his left foot. He wasn't normally one to be comfortable with someone else touching his feet, or really any part of his body, but with Ian, Mickey realized rather quickly that it was different for some reason. His touch was so gentle, yet firm and intentful, seeming to know just exactly where to push and where to rub and the sensation quickly radiated up his legs causing the rest of his nerves to simply wash away. 

Ian applied more oil to his hands and a bit to the man beneath him as he slowly rubbed his palms further up to Mickey's shins and knees, causing him to bite his tongue from behind his lips and focus a little harder. His hands were warm and the oil was cool and tingly, the contrast sending goosebumps rippling across his pores and he let slip the softest pleasurable sigh and felt himself relax even more. The redhead grasped his palms over each kneecap, rubbing deeply and slowly, then moved a bit higher to begin caressing his thighs, causing Mickey's eyes to flicker open just the slightest bit. 

He peered downward toward his masseuse, seeing him leaned over and focused as his hands continued to work and press and rub, but for some reason he actually appeared to be a little nervous himself as well. He had his teeth sunk firmly into his lower lip and he looked as if he were struggling not to let his eyes wander from the current spot they lay on. The sight confused Mickey a little bit, as the other man had been nothing but professional during their last session, though Mickey hadn't really been able to see him while he worked last time either. So, he supposed he couldn't be completely sure. But Ian's expression now was nothing short of struggling, though not in a bad way exactly. It was more like maybe he was battling with a bit of self control, and Mickey just kept his eyes on him, watching the muscles of his arms flex beneath pale, freckled skin as the man's fingers kneaded firmly into the meaty flesh of his thighs. It was hard not to fantasize while he looked, but he still had to keep control of himself, so he peered back up to Ian's face instead.

Mickey sighed again beneath a hard, round rub and Ian finally let his eyes raise, only to land on Mickey's face, seeing the man watching him while he worked. His expression changed when their eyes connected and he suddenly looked caught of guard for an instant, then quickly changed it once more, offering his client a small, but professional smile and Mickey just looked for another second before he closed his eyes again. ‘Fuck,’ he thought. This might end up being more difficult than he thought. 

Ian's hands moved higher, causing Mickey's eyes to press shut more tightly, willing his body to behave as he tried to enjoy the massage, just not too much. He could feel the blood in his body shifting, redirecting, though he seemed to be able to stop it for now. But when the redhead's fingers brushed against the bottom of his towel, he shivered without meaning to and opened his eyes again. Ian had felt the shiver as well, raising his gaze once more to lock with Mickey's and they were silent for a moment as his hands continued to move before he just slightly arched an eyebrow. 

“Good so far?” asked Ian. Mickey licked his lips and tried not to let his breath stutter as they slowly parted. 

“Yeah,” he answered quietly. 

Their eyes lingered together for a short, quiet moment, then Ian dropped his gaze and took a step further up the table, letting his eyes trace the muscles of the other man's chest, raising his bottle of oil to apply some to Mickey's skin. Mickey watched him as he did, fighting off the slightest flinch at the sensation of the cool, silky liquid dripping over his abs, unintentionally flexing them at the contact. Then it was the redhead's lips that parted at the sight, but he said nothing, flashing Mickey's face the smallest glance just before Ian placed his palms back onto his body to rub the oil into his muscles and he let his eyes fall shut again.

Fuck, it felt good, so fucking good and Mickey just couldn't get enough, relishing and savoring the soothing contact of the other man's hands as they moved across his skin. He was even tempted to consider coming back again sometime the following week for this very same service, it being so much more satisfying and intense than their last session was and they were barely halfway through. Not that the last session wasn't, but this was better, much better and Mickey made a point to memorize as much of it as he could, secretly knowing how shamefully he'll end up using the memories later. And as Ian's hands moved even higher, caressing massage oil into the flesh of his pecs, he tried not shudder with pleasure from the feeling, though a small breathy groan still managed to slip out. 

He kept his eyes clamped shut, a little embarrassed by the noise the other man had pulled up from his throat, but Ian didn't seem to mind it. His hands’ movements never ceased or paused, in fact just after the groan had escaped Mickey, Ian seemed to grip and grasp with a little more intention, bringing his palms up to press his thumbs into firmer circles atop Mickey's shoulders. The dark haired man swallowed another groan and let himself enjoy it, though he perhaps enjoyed it a little too much and he felt his blood begin to flow upon a different course once more. 

As the redhead took another step to stand just above Mickey's head, kneading his fingertips firmly into flesh while he did, the dark haired man felt the faintest bit of swelling beginning to form beneath his towel and he knew he wouldn't be able to hide it if he didn't roll over really fucking soon. He tried to think of tits and pussy, red lipstick and flowery perfume, tried to think of all the things that generally disgusted him, hoping it would die back down, but it didn't seem to be working much in the slightest. Ian's hands just felt too good, too amazing, too fucking perfect and Mickey couldn't seem to get his mind to stray from them no matter how desperately he tried. But by some fucking miracle, the timing couldn't have been better, thankfully, because as soon as Mickey was sure he'd end up humiliatingly pitching a tent against his will, Ian's hands disappeared from his shoulders and he took a step back. 

“Ready to roll over for me?” Ian queried, causing Mickey to turn and resituate almost instantly, not hesitating for a single fucking second to do as he was directed and kept his arising arousal concealed.

But then when Ian began to massage the other side of him, it became much more intense for Mickey very, very quickly. It felt as if there were sparks shooting from his fingertips and static sizzling along his skin as the other man's hands rubbed firmly over his calves and caressed the backs of his knees. Mickey swallowed another shudder as he kept his eyes closed and focused on the other man's touch, letting himself very openly enjoy it now that he was facing the other way. He let slip more breathy groans and pleasurable hums as the redhead kneaded and rubbed over the backs of his thighs and Mickey began to melt all over again just like he had before. He was at Ian's fucking mercy.

When Ian's palms reached the very top of his legs, just under his ass, Mickey bit his lip, quietly imagining what that very same grip might feel like if it were just a little bit higher and he pushed out a long, slow exhale at the thought, his cock now ridiculously hard pressed against the table beneath his body. He never fucking wanted this to end. It felt almost indescribable, how incredible it was. An hour just wasn't fucking long enough and Mickey almost wished for time to slow down so it could last even longer. There was nothing else like it. 

Then the redhead finally moved up to his back, slicking his skin with oil and began to rub again, instantly focusing on the very same problem areas he'd worked on before, clearly remembering which parts of Mickey's back needed the most attention. For a second, Mickey felt a little special that Ian seemed to remember such details, but then he figured that Ian must do that with every client, that it was part of his job and he tried not to think on it too heavily, exhaling with another chesty groan as the redhead's thumb twisted inside of a muscle knot. Then he did it again between his hips, right at the base of Mickey's spine and he fought off another shudder. 

“Fuck, that's good,” Mickey pushed out in a heavy, groany voice, speaking aloud before he realized that he had.

He tried not to tense after the words left his tongue, suddenly a little nervous again at his vocal praise. But then he heard Ian smile in response and his palms continued to rub, though now they seemed to move just a bit more tenderly. 

“Good to hear,” replied Ian with a rather proud tone in his voice, to which Mickey seemed to relax again and let himself forget about his own comment, each of them falling quiet once more. 

For the rest of the hour, Ian worked on Mickey's back, smoothing over each bulk of muscle in firm, sure movements, taking his time, and working over each individual muscle agonizingly slowly, seeming to draw out the massage more than he really needed to. But Mickey still didn't mind in the slightest and hell, at this point he was almost willing to pay for another entire hour, just so he could draw it out as well. He swallowed more shivers and bit down on moans, but still let other creep out here and there, the sensation becoming almost overwhelming the longer it lasted. And Mickey never thought about his father even once the entire time on the table, having almost completely forgotten the inevitable sense of dread he'd been drowning in for the last week. It was exactly what he needed, just like he'd hoped it would be. 

When the hour was finally up, Mickey had been reduced to a mushy, malleable putty once again and he really didn't want to move from where he lay right now, maybe not ever, wishing he could stay right where he was for the rest of the foreseeable future. But he couldn’t and he knew that, though he was definitely already feeling quite satisfied with his venture back down here, and Mickey was honestly rather glad that he'd decided to come, even if he'd probably never voice it. It’d been worth it, that's for sure. Ian worked his fingers into the other man's neck with just the slightest circular pinch, then lightened his pressure before releasing him and stepping back from table. 

“Another hour down,” announced Ian, “I think you'll definitely notice an improvement this time,” he added confidently, to which the man still on the table merely groaned in response much in the same way he had before.

The redhead chuckled as he peered down at his currently immobilized client, then held his smile and waited a moment before Mickey finally, slowly lifted his upper body onto his elbows. Their eyes met again, then Mickey arched a cocky eyebrow and shot him a small smirk. 

“Is that a fuckin' guarantee?” quipped Mickey, though the redhead simply held his expression and tipped his chin. 

“You'll have to tell me,” Ian retorted right back, to which the other man scoffed with amusement and rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, okay Red,” said Mickey with a heavy lace of sarcasm and an uncommitted nod, turning his face away from him.

“It's Ian,” the redhead corrected and the other man just rolled his eyes again.

“I know,” said Mickey with another single nod.

Then he almost began to rise completely when he was suddenly reminded of the extremely obvious erection he still had hidden beneath his towel and paused, knowing it wouldn’t be able to hide it much longer, as he flashed his masseuse another glance. But thankfully Ian was respectful, and though Mickey wasn't quite sure if the other man was aware of his predicament, he almost immediately did exactly what Mickey was hoping he would. 

“I'll just give you a little privacy to get dressed,” he offered, then turned his body away to walk back toward his little cabinet and incense table on the other side of the room. 

Mickey watched him go, seeing him put away his little bottle of massage oil, then began occupying himself with his candles, seemingly organizing them. The dark haired man then took the opportunity to finally rise, stand, and practically sprint into the corner behind the changing divider. The second he stood behind it, he exhaled as deeply, yet as quietly as he could, then reached for his cock and gave it a slight squeeze, willing his hard on to fade so he could walk out of here without an awkward limp in his step. It took a moment, but eventually it did, though Mickey knew when he got home later, he'd more than likely end up jerking off something furious. Fuck, he needed a cigarette after that at the least for sure.

He removed his towel and dressed again, placing his discarded piece of fabric in a neatly folded square atop the shelf and emerged from the corner once more. When he did Ian turned his face just like before and offered a questioning smile, to which Mickey returned with a small smile of his own, silently telling the man that he'd enjoyed the hour quite a bit. Ian seemed a bit happier at that and his smile rose just slightly from the sight, then arched an eyebrow. 

“Feeling alright?” asked Ian. Mickey thumbed his lip and shrugged. 

“Better than I fuckin' did when I came in,” he admitted honestly and Ian's smile seemed to glow just a little at his words and gave a small nod. 

“Good,” said Ian, green eyes tracing delicately over his face and he tipped his chin at him, “You're more than welcome to come back any time you need another massage,” he informed, then gestured around the room with an upturned palm, “I'll be here,” he said.

Mickey kept his sight on him, thumbed his lip once more and tipped his own chin as well. The redhead then finally looked away, then made steps to walk back over to his door and opened it for him. 

“Any time,” Ian repeated surely as Mickey passed through his door way. The dark haired man flashed him a confirming glance and stepped out into the hall, turning back to look at Ian just one last time before he had to leave, “Have a good evening, Mickey,” he said. Mickey hesitated for just an instant, then thought ‘Fuck it,’ and offered a simple, but agreeing expression. 

“You too, man,” he replied lowly, earning him another final smile from the tall, handsome redhead, before he forced himself to look away and began back down the hall and out to his truck. 

And as he started up his engine and pulled out from the Red Swan parking lot, Mickey's mind wandered all over again, with the fresh imprints of big, strong hands pressing down over his body and the lingering tickling tingle of the massage oil still speckling over his skin. There was really nothing fucking like it and he knew just how much he was already hooked. Then he considered for just a moment, that he just might end up going back again after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a new chapter and a new POV for you! :)  
> Still editing, as always, but I think it's okay.  
> Kinda short, but it felt right to me, so I hope it feels right to you too.  
> Hope you all like it! Please let me know what you think! :)

In general, most work weeks for Ian always felt pretty long. Some days were simple, easy and smooth, while others were much more dull, slow and dragging. And even though massage therapy had not been his first choice of occupation, he'd grown to enjoy his work more than he thought he would, for the most part anyway.

There were aspects of the job that were quite rewarding, when a new client would come in complaining of some uncomfortable ailment in their muscles that nothing could ever seem to cure and Ian could pinpoint and relieve it almost every time. The longer he had worked at the Red Swan and began taking much more care and consideration in his work, he studied and educated himself on the muscles of the body, movement, pressure and reflex points, really wanting to be the best at it he could possibly be. Ian may not be certified in any way, may not exactly be legit, but he was professional and proud, and he always worked hard. 

But then occasionally there were still other aspects about the job that he genuinely did not enjoy, though he was usually able to avoid having to deal with it more often than not lately. Ian may have once began his job here under different circumstances, and may have once offered much different services than he does now, the inquiry still arose from the occasional new client from time to time, even if he wasn't like that anymore. Ian had put a stop to such things a long time ago, wanting to better himself, to do something good and genuine, something wholesome and right. He wanted to do something that made him feel good, not worn out, tired and used. All of that was behind him and he had no plans to go back. 

So every once in a while, when a strange man would venture into the Red Swan, with much different things on his mind than merely a simple massage and inquired about ‘special services,’ Ian was always quick to shoot the question down. He didn't work like that, not anymore and if they pushed it, he simply had them removed. Since he had started doing this, word seemed to have spread around and he didn't get much of those types anymore, but mostly genuine people, just looking for some assistance with their pain. These were the people that Ian was always more than happy to help. 

And so on most days even though the majority of clients he saw were elderly or disabled, along with the occasional accident injury victim, these days felt slow, Ian also felt good knowing that at least in some small way, he was helping these people mend, helping them heal. It was a great feeling and it kept him going each day he still had to be there, each day he was still stuck, until he had finally paid off his debt and would be able to leave. One day he would get to close this chapter of his life and move on to better things. But that day wasn't today. Today he still he had to work, so work he did. 

All week while seeing clients at the Swan, Ian's mind had been elsewhere, despite trying to keep his focus and not let it wander. But it was difficult and it had been for a while, ever since he'd seen a very particular new client that had left quite the impression on him and he just couldn't seem to get the man out of his head. 

Mickey. Fuck, Mickey. He was a type of man that Ian usually did not service, as most men of Mickey's type usually met with the female masseuses that were employed at the Red Swan instead of him, for pretty obvious reasons. They were usually more interested in a woman's sensual, delicate touch as opposed to Ian's wider, firmer grip, but that was usually just fine to him. Since he didn't offer extra favors any more, this became typical, comfortable and predictably expected, until Mickey showed up. 

This man was different for some reason, a reason he couldn't seem to put his finger on, but it felt like a good thing. Once Ian had gotten Mickey to feel more comfortable, working with him became easy, being able to knead, read and untangle the tension trapped within his muscles almost effortlessly, like his hands were meant to preform just this very act. When Ian touched him, he swallowed shivers and flutters and just tried to push away the pleasurable shudder that threatened to radiate from his fingers up through his arms. It was hard to focus at times with a man like Mickey beneath his fingertips, hard to restrain himself and remain professional under the circumstances. Even though Ian still barely knew him, he knew that touching him at least, felt simply incredible.

When Mickey had first appeared within his doorway, the unexpected surprise of him had been a good one, and to even say that was putting it lightly. Mickey was young and handsome, masculine and rough around the edges, but with just the right tweak of the redhead's grasp and grip against his flesh, he could reduce the man to not much more than a thoroughly tenderized, defenseless puddle of goo. There was something extremely attractive about that alone that made Ian's mind stray while he was working on other clients. He'd genuinely enjoyed his time with Mickey and had been beyond happy and excited when the man had even shown up a second time wanting even more than he'd had that first time. He was just different, but he just wasn't entirely sure how. 

He was distracted in much the same today as it marked the end of another week and Ian couldn't help but feel a little excited, since for the past two weeks Mickey had shown up on this same day and around the same time, silently wondering if the man had any intention on reappearing again tonight. The clock was ticking closer toward the time he'd arrived before and Ian just tried to ignore it, just tried to work and focus on each client he had, even if it seemed near impossible right now. 

Then as he ushered one of his final clients out of his work space and collected their payment as they did, he turned back and began to tidy up the room, quickly trying to make it clean and presentable once more. Ian tried not to feel to anxious as he sterilized his massage table and tossed towels into the hamper and replacing them with fresh ones, even opening the drawer his little cabinet and extracting the little bottle of tingly, minty oil that he knew Mickey enjoyed. Then he turned with a smile as he heard the clearing of a man's throat within his doorway, but then let it drop rather flatly as his eyes landed on the person it came from. 

Vern was an older man with thin, graying hair, a skinny, lip-hugging moustache and glasses that made his eyes appear just a bit too big. He was leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed, gazing over at the young redhead with a smug, appealing smirk on his lips, looking at him a little expectantly, watching him where he stood. Normally if any other man had appeared where the old man stood, looking at him with the same expression the old man bore, Ian would have sent him away without a single word, not at all liking that look in the slightest. 

But Vern was also his boss, the owner of the Red Swan and he was always there for the very same reason, so Ian had no choice but to interact with the man, as much as he loathed his presence. He was cocky and flamboyant, and he knew he was in charge, a fact that Vern never let any of his staff forget if he could help it. The man tapped his fingers against his arms, as if waiting for a greeting and raised his eyebrows with a sweet, expectant smile. Ian held his own flattened expression and gave a single blink. 

“Vern,” he muttered and the older man licked his lips and pursed them. 

“Well hello there, Bright Eyes,” grinned Vern, then let his eyes sweep down the redhead's body, “Looking good today,” he complimented, to which Ian simply scoffed through his nose, then looked away to shut his cabinet drawer, set the bottle of oil down and took a step over toward his table to blow out a lavender scented candle that'd been left burning from a previous client. The older man held his smile on him, then took a glance around the room. 

“You closing up shop already?” he queried. The younger man glanced toward the blue bottle of massage oil with a certain man still on his mind, then shot another glance toward the clock on his wall above the doorway. 

“I'm not sure yet,” replied Ian, and Vern pursed his lips again with a nod. 

“Well the night's still young, ya know,” mentioned Vern, then looked at him pointedly, “Can't make any dough if you're not working,” he observed. Ian sighed, but kept his eyes downward and his hands busy. 

“I am working, Vern,” corrected Ian, but the other man just blinked again. 

“Not as hard as you could be,” countered Vern with another smug smirk pulling at his lips. The redhead frowned but kept his voice leveled. 

“Just in between clients at the moment,” said Ian, “Pretty sure I have another coming in soon,” he informed him taking another small glance toward the clock. 

“Hope they've got deep pockets,” the old man said, then cocked his head, “Don't bring in nearly as much as you used to anymore,” said Vern. Ian pressed his lips together and exhaled frustratingly through his nose. 

“You already know the reason for that,” replied Ian, then turned his face to look at his boss very seriously, “I don't turn tricks anymore and I'm never fucking going to,” he said, “I don't fucking care if it takes me longer to pay everything back,” he frowned sternly, “I'm not holding out on you either, if that's what you think,” said Ian. Vern laughed, then uncrossed his arms to raise his hands in feigned defense. 

“Hey now, I'm not complaining,” said Vern, then crossed his arms once more, letting his eyes trail quite shamelessly back down the younger man's body, “I don't mind having the eye candy around for as long as it wants to be here,” he grinned, then gave his head another pointed tilt, “But you still gotta make enough to cover collections just like everybody else,” Vern added in a stern tone of his own and arched an eyebrow at him, “And you're barely scrapping by, boy,” he said. The redhead glared at him silently for a short moment, than turned his face away again. 

“You'll get your money, Vern,” Ian assured, “All of it. You always do,” he said, to which the older man just nodded once more. 

“I sure as fuck will, honey,” Vern agreed, then smirked at him, “But until I do, your ass is still mine,” he stated surely, thickly, reminding him of a fact they both already knew, “So keep fucking working how ever you want to,” he said, “But you still got a long way to go, kid,” added Vern, then blew Ian a wet, teasing kiss in his direction and winked at him in a rather playful manner. 

The redhead just ignored it like he always did, staring down at the arrangement of candles and incense atop his table, then Vern turned to leave the room and walked off down the hallway. Then his hands stopped and his eyes closed as Ian let out a long, heavy exhale and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

He always hated being reminded of why he was here and the fact that he was still stuck and probably would be for a while. But it's not like Ian had much other choice. Just like every other worker in the Red Swan, Ian owed Vern, a lot, and wouldn't be able to leave until he works it all off. The best thing that had come out of the situation for him was that he'd genuinely tried to take advantage of his position, especially after Ian had stopped offering extras, which was the whole reason he'd become so invested in learning more and improving his work. If Ian was going to be stuck here, he at least was going to try and make the most of it, refusing to let the opportunity go to waste. 

And although it'd only become a fairly recent development, clients like Mickey, the only client like him there was, just his presence alone had started to make Ian's days a little better. Just like now as Ian took another breath, willing away the irritation and annoyance conversations with his boss always brought him, the thought and hope that Mickey may return tonight seemed to ease his mood quite a bit. He glanced toward the clock on the wall once more, watching the second hand tick past the middle hand, knowing if the man was going to show, it'd likely be any moment now and anxiously he bit his lower lip as his gaze dropped down to the empty doorway with a blink.

Then his cellphone suddenly vibrated inside his pocket with a low, buzzing hum and he jumped at the sensation. Ian pulled his phone out of his pants and glanced down at it with a squint just before he raised his eyebrow, then answered it. 

“Hey Debs, what's up?” greeted Ian. He heard the sounds of traffic mixed with a happily giggling little girl somewhere in the background. 

“Are you busy right now?” his sister queried. He creased his brow a bit and gave his head a tilt, his eyes moving back to the still-empty doorway across the room. 

“I'm uh, kinda working,” Ian replied, “Why, do you need something?” he asked. 

“I need your help,” said Debbie, then there was a pause in her voice and Ian waited, as he heard his sister frown into the phone, “Help with her,” she emphasized in a very particular tone that her brother knew all too well and he frowned right along with her. 

“The fuck happened this time?” asked Ian, his annoyance and irritation returning to his mood with a force as his brow crinkled more deeply. 

“I don't really know,” answered Debbie, “But I know where she is,” she said, “Need to go get her.”

Ian sighed through his nose and tipped head back knowing his night was officially ruined. Then there was a honk from the other end of the line and heard his sister snap a quick ‘fuck off!’ through her window before she brought her lips back to the phone. 

“Can I pick you up?” Debbie asked and Ian knew there was no question to it and he sighed again heavily. 

“Yeah,” breathed Ian, “I'll help you. Come get me,” he said, the disappointment simply dripping from his words and he heard Debbie's blinker flip on. 

“Be there in five,” she said and hung up just like that. 

Ian kept his phone to his ear for a second and shut his eyes before he let his arm drop and slipped it back inside his pocket. He then reached to comb his fingertips through his hair and stepped back of over to his cabinet to put the little blue bottle back inside the drawer. 

As much as Ian would much rather stay, how very much he would rather wait for Mickey to arrive, he didn't know for sure if the man would show or not, and this was important, really important, something that he couldn't really ignore even if he wanted to. He just didn't have the time anymore tonight and just had to hope that he'd be able to catch the man another day. 

Ian swallowed a groan as he fished his wallet and keys out from a small lock box within the lower drawer of his cabinet, pulled his hoodie off a hook in the corner, shrugging it on as he crossed the room to turn off the lamp. Then Ian stepped out into the hall, closed the door behind him and walked outside to meet his sister. 

She picked him up at the corner with Franny playing quietly in the back, and together they drove across Southside, staying on a fairly straight shot, just before it began melting into the lower part of Westside and the houses that lined the streets began to look rougher, darker, far more crumbling than even the typical shitholes that covered their own neighborhood. They wove through narrow streets and slowed down to move over gaping, cratering potholes that scattered across the asphalt down every block. The little girl in the backseat had now fallen asleep and the sun had set, the sky now filled with sparkling stars and windy pitch. Debbie and Ian drove quietly as their eyes traced the houses they passed, sitting silently beside each other until the girl finally spoke in a low quiet whisper. 

“I'm sorry for always bothering you with this shit, Ian,” said Debbie, keeping her eyes focused ahead of her, “I tried calling both Lip and Fiona first,” she explained, then pressed her lips together very dryly, “But you know how they are about this kinda thing,” she frowned, her voice laced with disdain. Her brother glanced toward her, then back out the window with a single knowing nod. 

“They already gave up a long fucking time ago, Debs,” replied Ian, “I mean, can you really blame them?” he asked rhetorically, knowing she really didn't need to answer, that she knew. They all knew. Debbie kept her gaze out the window, her face rouged with desperation and pain and she suddenly looked like she might break, her voice straining just a bit. 

“But to write her off like that completely is just fucked up,” she spoke through her teeth, then blinked, turning her face away from her brother, “She doesn't fucking deserve that,” said Debbie, “No one does,” she breathed quietly and Ian nodded again. 

“I know,” said Ian. 

He peered through the darkness at his younger sister, seeing the ache, the pain, the despair that painted her face and saw how tired she was of this, how much she was just trying to hold it all together and Ian couldn't help but feel for her, empathize with her, understanding those feelings completely. Ian reached over, grasped his hand atop her knee, and gave her a soft, but grounding squeeze, then a small rub, causing her to turn her face back toward him, seeing his understanding expression. She sniffed and held back her tears, refusing to let them fall. 

“Thank you, Ian,” said Debbie as she looked back forward, letting her searching gaze move back along the houses they drove past, “Thank you for this,” she pressed, “You shouldn't always have to be the one that has to fucking do this,” Debbie continued, squeezing her hands tightly around the steering wheel, then gave another sniff and a head shake, “She just doesn't fucking listen to anyone else,” she said. Her brother let go of her knee and sat back, looking back out the window to scan the houses as well. 

“None of us should have to fucking do this,” corrected Ian. 

Debbie began nodding her head, then raised her sleeve-covered hand to her face, rubbing it over her eyes, then dropped it as another small silence fell between them, until Ian spoke again. 

“So, where exactly is she?” he asked with a glance toward the other side of the street. 

“Inside the condemned, shit colored, roach nest on the corner up here,” replied Debbie to which Ian stifled a chuckly scoff and shook his head. 

“Sounds cozy,” he said. His sister nodded again, then reached down to the center console to grab her phone and brightened it's screen for an instant to check it. 

“Carl's with her,” added Debbie, then set her phone back down, “You know, just to make sure she doesn't keel over or try to run off again,” she said. Her brother pushed out his lip and gave a nod of his own. Then she made a left turn into an alley, and pointed with her chin, “This is it,” she gestured as she pulled up behind a little, brown house with thick, wooden boards covering all the windows on the first floor and turned her engine off. 

There was a silence again, a heavy one, a silence that neither of them wanted to face or acknowledge, yet still it lingered, draping over them like a thick fog caught in the air and Ian swallowed, trying to prepare himself for whatever he was going to be forced to face in there. It was never quite as predictable as he always thinks it will be. But it was always hard. Debbie tapped her fingers along the steering wheel, then let his hands slip from it to fall limply into her lap and turned toward him just a bit. 

“I should probably stay with Franny,” Debbie gestured with a point of her thumb, “Since she's asleep,” she said, but then raised a questioning eyebrow, “Unless you need me to come with?” she offered, then tipped her chin toward the back of the house, “Carl should be right there inside though.” Ian shook his head and reached to unbuckle his seat belt. 

“I got it,” he assured as he pulled the strap from his shoulder and let it fall back behind him, “You stay with Fran,” agreed Ian, then let out a final sigh as he pushed open the door, “I just hope this doesn't take too fucking long,” he mumbled as he stepped out from the car. 

Ian crossed the alley and made his way along the skinny little pathway that cut through the yard leading up to the back door, careful to stay quick and quiet in his steps. He didn't want to draw any unwanted attention to himself and really preferred to just hurry this all up, get in and get out with as little issue as humanly possible. The screen door at the back of the house opened with a loud, scratchy creak and he winced when it whined, but eased it open further for him to take a step and twist open the knob of the door. It was unlocked and opened with the softest metallic click, but just as he swung it wider to take another step inside, Ian was suddenly halted by the barrel of a hand gun being shoved in his face. 

For an instant he was sure his heart had suddenly went slamming down into his feet and began oozing out through the tips of his toes, just before his eyes adjusted through the darkness onto the face of the person holding it. He swallowed an aggravated curse and immediately grabbed the weapon, moving it swiftly away from his head. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, are you outta your mind, you crazy little shit!?” Ian angrily exclaimed in a thick, outrageous hush, “Watch where you're sticking that fucking thing!” he spat into the darkness and Carl took a step back. 

“My bad,” he said, looking him over, then glancing out the window toward their sister's car parked in the alley, “Didn't hear you pull up,” said Carl as he tucked his gun back into the waistband of his jeans, “I didn't mean to fucking scare you,” he shrugged, “Just didn't know it was you,” he said. Ian frowned at him and gave him a small, but rough shove. 

“Well, pay closer fucking attention from now on,” advised Ian, to which his younger brother simply straightened his clothes and brushed the push off. 

“Said I didn't mean to,” Carl repeated in a mumble, then glanced further into the house before looking back up at the redhead in front of him, “Thanks for coming,” he said, but his brother waved him off. 

“You guys have to stop fucking thanking me like I'm some kinda goddamn savior,” replied Ian, “We're all dealing with this shit together,” he said and Carl scoffed. 

“Not all of us,” he corrected, referring to their two other capable siblings that felt it wasn't worth it and they had better things to do. 

Ian held his sight on Carl, understanding, but refusing to let his feeling about their siblings inaction dwell on him too much right now when there were important things to do and he tipped his chin. 

“We don't need them,” said Ian and his brother seemed to accept that, agreed to that and nodded at his words. Then the redhead squinted his eyes as he turned his face in an attempt to peer further inside the house, but it was just too dark. He looked back at Carl and gave his head a flick. 

“Where is she?” he asked and the other young man pointed into the blackness with his brow. 

“Master bedroom,” replied Carl, “Strung the fuck out,” he added, sounding like he was numb now to the fact that the woman wasn't much more than a careless, reckless fucking junkie and looked back over at Ian, “Been asleep for a while now,” Carl said, “But she's not dead yet,” he noted blandly. 

“How's she looking now?” queried Ian to which Carl simply arched an eyebrow. 

“You should see for yourself,” he said. The redhead swallowed, his brother's words sinking in with more dread he could ever describe and he blinked with a breath, trying to prepare himself again. 

“Show me then,” Ian said and Carl led the way. 

His brother brought him through an open front room, sure to direct him around piles of trash and over turned furniture, through a short, narrow hallway and toward a cracked door that has just the faintest glimmering of golden light seeping out from inside. Carl slowly pushed open the door and walked inside with Ian following close behind him, then stepped sideways with a pointed palm toward the corner of the room. 

Tucked away within the shadows of a candle, there was a softly breathing bundle of filthily stained blankets huddled atop a worn and beaten mattress that lay along the floor. Ian took a small step closer, seeing a needle, a straw, a blade, a spoon and a large thread of elastic strewn beside the bed, and he frowned painfully at the sight, before he eyes moved back up toward the sleeping bundle. The breaths he heard were slow and ragged, but they were deep and long, the mound softly rising and falling atop the mass of torn fabric and rusty springs. 

He repressed his sadness and willed away the scratchy, burning threat of tears in his eyes and swallowed again, trying to ignore the pain this sight brought him and he walked a little closer. Ian pressed his lips together tight as he approached on quiet, nervous feet and crouched down beside the mound, hesitating, before he reached out with a shaky hand to grasp the being underneath. When his hand made contact, the pile shifted and he heard a raspy cough sputter out from within and it rose just a bit, sliding down off the face and body from the woman it'd kept concealed. 

Ian's eyes traced over her, taking in the sight. He saw her stringy blonde hair as it hung loosely over her face, looking like it hadn't been washed in weeks, along with her thin, cracked lips and dark, hallow orbits of her eyes underneath. He noticed the thick, rigid streaks of her track marks that trailed up her arms and along her neck, and the color of her flesh that was a pale, sickly gray. She looked thin and bony, fragile and weak, a shell of what she once was in memories that now seemed much too far away. 

The woman was a living, breathing skeleton, but only barely, like if you'd touch her, she might break, crumble, disintegrate into dust. She looked ill, used and tired, so fucking tired and now was when it was hard, harder than Ian ever imagined as he gazed back into her face and forced himself to smile. He reached out once more to touch her shoulder, careful not to let her shatter as his palm met her cool, clammy flesh and he just hoped that she could see that it was him. Ian blinked again, forcing his lip not to tremble as he spoke. 

“Hey Mom,” he said.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay new chapter!! It's about double the length of the last one.  
> And we are back to Mickey's POV this chapter!!  
> I'm still editing it, so please ignore any little mistakes.  
> I really hope everyone enjoys it! :)  
> Please let me know what you think, feedback helps tremdously. :)  
> And as always, thank you for reading! :)

All week long Mickey had felt relatively better, though he still couldn't help but be a little on edge when his mind began lingering just a bit too long on the inevitable. But for the most he was able to keep himself distracted, focused on work, on each days construction schedule, willing his thoughts back to a better place when they began to stray again. 

Mickey would never admit it to anyone else, hardly even letting himself fully acknowledge what he began doing, but during the tougher moments when he'd usually sneak away to take a quick swig from his flask, he would refrain. Instead he'd try his best to recall what it felt like to relax, to let someone else take control and help his tension melt away. Mickey thought of strong hands, a firm grip and a handsome grin with fiery red hair and these were things he pondered on quite often now, much more than he'd ever say. But it helped, it really fucking helped, even if he wasn't sure why it did. 

He even considered going to see Ian again tonight, just like he had the past couple weeks, but was a little nervous about making too much of a habit out of the man and his services. Mickey knew he couldn't let himself grow too dependent on it, no matter how good it felt. It was an attachment that he didn't need. But still, the option was a hard one to shake, and few other things seemed to have such a lasting, positive affect on him. Few things made him let go and forget even for just a short while, the way Ian's tentative, intentful touch seemed to do. And it was a hard thing to turn down, especially knowing that deep down, he really didn't want to. 

It also helped to remind himself that Mickey still had a little more freedom and a little more slack to do as wants, since his father's friends around town had no reason to keep much eye on him if his father wasn't back out on the streets just yet. He didn't need to keep a constant eye over his shoulder just yet. Mickey sort of thought he should take advantage of that while he could. So, as another week neared it's end, he'd become more and more set on the decision to drive back down to the Red Swan after work to meet with Ian again. He felt he kind of needed it. 

As he finished up his final tasks for the day and started walking the perimeter of the site, looking things over like Mickey usually did, he strode quietly among halted equipment and loads of materials smoking a cigarette and double checking everything that'd been done. The sun was near it's set as he finished up his stroll and most of his workers had departed for the night, having already left or were just taking off. Mickey exhaled a plume of smoke up into the air, then dropped his filter to the ground and snuffed it out with his foot. He took one final sweeping glance around before moving to lock the high, metal gate that surrounded the work site, then walked out to his truck and hopped inside to leave as well. Mickey removed his hard hat and flung it into the seat beside him, then raised a palm to ruffle it through his hair with a sigh, keeping his eyes on the road as he did. 

He was tired and sore again, but not as sore as he usually was, the slight lacing of looseness still lingering within his back and limbs from his last visit to the Swan, from his last visit with Ian. But still he ached and it made Mickey begin to crave the other man's hands on his skin all over again. Fuck, was it still a hard fucking thing to resist, as much as he really didn't want to resist it at all. He just couldn’t get the guy off his mind and almost felt shameful for it, bothered with himself that he was beginning to feel so fixated within his thoughts on this one single person, a fucking masseuse of all people. Mickey almost felt pathetic for being so drawn to the touch of someone he had to pay for, a craving that almost bordered on infatuation and it left him quite internally conflicted to say the least. He wouldn't say he was completely infatuated, but he was certainly interested, in more ways than he let himself admit. 

But as Mickey arrived at his apartment, unlocking his door and stepping inside, he kept thinking, kept trying to convince himself that it was Ian's services that he enjoyed so much, that he craved so much, not necessarily the man himself. And as much as he knew that wasn't entirely true, it was enough to finalize his earlier plan to drive back down to the Red Swan. So, he swallowed a bit of pride and search through his closet for a decent change of clothes, then jumped into the shower to freshen up before he's back out the door. 

When he finished, he emerged from his bathroom in a cloud of steam, a fresh blue towel wrapped snug around his hips as he padded at the slick black hair atop his head with thick, dark gray one. Mickey threw a hot pocket in his microwave, then returned to his room to dress, just wanting to get something in his stomach before he leaves, fastening the last few buttons of his shirt just as he heard the machine beep from other side of his apartment. Mickey began walking back to retrieve his cheesy, bubbly little pastry when he suddenly heard his phone begin blaring from his bedroom. He paused his feet, tipped his head back with a groan and cursed with a scrunch of his face, then turned right back around to go answer it instead. When Mickey picked it up, his face frowned even further as his eyes flashed across the screen and he sighed rather heavily as he swiped his thumb across it. 

“What?” he barked bluntly into his phone. 

“Bad time?” replied Iggy, to which his brother simply rolled his eyes, huffed through his nose and turned back around to walk toward his kitchen. 

“When the fuck isn't it?” Mickey asked back, closing the space toward his microwave atop the counter and popping it open with the press of a button, “The fuck you want, man?” he queried. 

There was some movement on the other end of the line, and the brief sounds of something heavy being moved around, mingled by the faintest sound of water gushing out from somewhere in the background. 

“I uh, could use a hand with something,” said Iggy, then another slight scuffle against the speaker like the man was moving around as he spoke, “I mean, if you're not fucking busy at the moment,” he added, sounding like he really didn't want to bother his brother, but he was asking for a reason. Mickey blew on his hot pocket, took a small bite, then raised an eyebrow as he chewed. 

“A hand with what?” Mickey asked further, his tone laced with confusion, then swallowed, “The fuck did you do?” he pressed curiously. 

“I kinda got a little problem here,” answered Iggy, “At the house,” he specified. Mickey cursed when he took another bite, both from his brother's words and from the sting of melted cheese flooding over his tongue and creased his brow thickly. 

“So what the fuck’re you callin' me for?” spat Mickey as he dropped his hot pocket on top of his counter and swallowed the burning food in his mouth, “We've been through this shit before, Iggs,” he reminded firmly, sounding already like he wasn't planning to budge for whatever the other man was going to ask him, “I'm never fuckin’ steppin' foot back in that shithole again if I can ever fuckin' help it,” he said, “Don't matter what the fuck you did,” stated Mickey, “Deal with the shit yourself,” he ordered. 

“Come on, Mick,” pleaded Iggy, “I wouldn't ask if it wasn't really fucking important,” he said. Mickey held a very flat expression as he lifted his hot pocket and took another bite. 

“I got other shit to do,” he chewed and this time it was Iggy that groaned.

“Please Mickey,” his brother begged, his voice sounding desperate and frustrated, “If I don't fix this shit up really fucking soon Terry's gonna have my ass for it, man,” said Iggy. 

Mickey held his frown, but paused at that. He knew his brother was being honest and wouldn't ask for his help with whatever he'd done if it wasn't actually important, if it wasn't truly imperative and Iggy must have really fucked something up pretty bad for him to ask at all. They both knew how their father was, the things he expected of them. Even if he felt nothing but hatred and disownership for Mickey, Iggy on the other hand was still Terry's son, still held to a particular level of expectation of the man, in this case demanding that he keep the old house in one piece while their father was locked away. It hadn't been in the best shape when he'd gone, when Mickey had finally walked out of it for what he thought would be the very last time, but it'd been livable at least. Iggy had been the only one of his siblings still living in it since then as well, for years and he'd never asked anything quite like this before now. So there must have been a good reason for it. And even if he really didn't want to go back there, he couldn't bring himself to leave Iggy to it alone. Mickey exhaled again through his nose and gave a blink, his appetite swiftly and suddenly disappearing and he turned to toss his hot pocket into the trash. 

“You fuckin' owe me for this shit, Iggy. You hear me?” replied Mickey in a firm tone, “Big time,” he emphasized and Mickey could hear the wide, relieved grin spread across his brother’s face through the other end of the phone, but he interrupted the man's joy to make one thing else very clear, “I still got other shit to do tonight though,” he reminded, “So I'm not stayin' for long no matter what the fuckin' issue is,” he said. Then Iggy seemed to hesitate for a moment before he spoke again.

“Well this shit may not exactly be a quick fix, Mick,” his brother explained, to which the dark haired man creased his brow a bit more deeply. 

“Don't give me that bullshit,” retorted Mickey, then arched another eyebrow, “Do you not fuckin’ know what I do for living?” he pressed incredulously, feeling confident that he could indeed fix whatever problem it was quite quickly, but his brother didn't seem to budge so easily. 

“Maybe you should just come over and let me show you,” Iggy suggested a bit warily, but surely, then there were a few more muffled sounds of movement and another gush of water that only confused the other man even more, “But uh, try to hurry huh?” he asked, the urgency returning to his voice, to which Mickey pressed his lips together with annoyance. 

“Fine,” said Mickey, “I'm on my fuckin' way,” he assured, “You better not be wastin' my fuckin' time, man,” Mickey warned, “I’ll shove my fuckin' foot up your ass if you are,” he said, more movement scratching around somewhere beside the man on the other end. 

“Thanks man,” said Iggy, earning him nothing more than a final scoff and a swipe of Mickey's thumb to end the call. 

He dropped his face as he slid his phone down inside his pocket, then pinched the bridge of his nose with another heavy sigh. ‘Fuck,’ he thought. This wasn't going to be an easy night at all. Mickey could only hope that he could deal with the situation and leave as quick as he could, refusing miss out on seeing Ian later on, that the man would still be working by the time he was able to finally show up. He muffled a huff as he grabbed his keys, wallet and cigarettes, then he was out the door and headed back downstairs, eager to hurry up and get this shit over with. 

The whole drive there Mickey felt anxious and uncomfortable, trying to control the jitter in his fingers and the clammy slick of sweat that threatened to seep through his pores, forcing himself to try and focus on nothing else but the road in front of him. He wasn't happy in the slightest about having to step foot back inside his childhood home, a place where he'd endured countless instances of trauma, neglect and abuse and a house Mickey had practically run from the very moment he could. He hated that house, wanted nothing more than to stay as far as he could from it at all times, yet here he was, driving there now, cursing grumbly under his breath as he glared back through the streets of his old neighborhood much sooner than he cared to be. But he was doing this for Iggy, something he just had to do, so he endured. 

Mickey pulled over and parked out front, then climbed out of his truck to approach the house in much slower steps than he thought he'd have. Even though Mickey tried not to come back down this block if at all, he'd been stuck going around back to the garage quite a few times for Iggy to work on the truck. Since his brother had built it, he knew it best and worked on it for free so it wasn't a terrible deal. But the house? No, Mickey never went inside the house anymore. And as he walked up the steps to the cramped little porch, it felt strange being here, and gave him a peculiarly queasy feeling inside the pit of his stomach. He tried to ignore it as he paused his feet in front of the door and hesitated, he breathed and he braced himself, just before he reached out with a single hand to give the knob a twist. 

Mickey blinked, but made no move to step inside, not quite yet, simply stuck and looking at the inside of the front room just a few feet within. It was a room that was filled to the ceiling with dark, cloudy memories and painful, grueling recollections that he'd rather not remember, and Mickey swallowed as he stared. The furniture was different, but set up just the same, with the very same puke-orange, crocheted blanket splayed across the back of the couch just like the old one had. There was far less clutter and useless shit scattered about it seemed, though the abundance of random automotive parts speckled throughout the floors seemed to have grown, for obvious reasons Mickey supposed since Iggy now ran a garage out back. And the wallpaper, even the fucking wallpaper was still the same, still marked and scarred with every rip, hole and stain it'd had the last time he was here. It was all uncomfortably familiar and the sight almost made him sick. But Mickey pushed it down, straightened his shoulders and finally took a step across the threshold. 

The instant he did, forcing himself further inside, he scrunched his face and creased his brow, now ignoring his painfully unwanted feelings of nostalgia and become instantly much more drawn into the noise that began to grow the deeper he went. Mickey narrowed his eyes in search as he followed the sound of gushing water from somewhere past the kitchen, leading him into the hall and began hearing a harsh, frustrated array of angry, muffled curses. Then just as his lips parted to speak, he heard a splash beneath his shoe and Mickey dropped his sight to reveal a steady flow of water, gushing out from underneath the bathroom door and flooding down the length of the hall. He screwed up his face, cursed as well, then began moving his feet a bit more lightly, not wanting the liquid to soak his socks and reached out to give a pound on the door with his fist.

“Aye, fuckhead!” called Mickey, “How the fuck did you manage this shit?” he snapped with annoyance, “It's wetter than a fat bitch at Chippendale's in here!” he said. 

Then the bathroom door swung open, releasing a small rushing wave that crashed up to his ankles with a splash and Mickey's eyes widened with an immense sting of irritation, practically growling at his brother as his felt his feet suddenly submerge within the icy liquid. 

“What the fuck?!” he boomed, then glared at Iggy who stood completely soaked from head to toe and looked to be at quite a loss at what to do.

Mickey held his frown, then looked past him toward the tub, seeing it steadily overflowing, with a hard, fast spray pouring out from a hole in the wall that was once covered by a faucet knob. His forehead crinkled deeply as his eyes shot back over to his brother.

“The fuck did you do?” asked Mickey in a deep, demanding tone, very quickly getting more and more pissed off the longer he stood with his feet beneath the water. Iggy rubbed his palms through his hair with an exasperated exhale and gestured toward the tub with his brow. 

“Took a shower, but when I got done the shit wouldn't fucking turn off. Like it got fucking stuck or some shit,” explained Iggy, sounding as if it was truly an explanation, but Mickey just stared at him. 

“So?” pressed Mickey, beginning to chew his lip as he tried to control his temper and Iggy gestured toward it once more. 

“So, I went out to the garage, grabbed a monkey wrench and tried budging it with that instead,” he said, causing his older brother to sigh, tip his head back, then rub a hand down his face at the other man's stupidity, “But I guess I pushed too hard and the fucking knob just snapped right off,” Iggy and continued, then gestured toward the steadily growing lake that now surrounded them within the room, “And now this shit,” he scoffed, “Can't fucking get it to stop,” grumbled Iggy, to which Mickey exhaled heavily through his nose once more, then looked at the other man very flatly, silently wondering if his brother was a complete moron and raised his eyebrows high. 

“Well, why the fuck didn't you just shut off the main water valve down in the fucking basement then?” Mickey queried simply, but Iggy just screwed up his face with confusion. 

“Shut off the what?” his brother asked back, to which Mickey titled his face, pressed his lips together tight, then raised his hand in a swatting motion to slap Iggy upside the head. 

“Ow!” Iggy exclaimed, then frowned as well, “The fuck?” he said, but Mickey just pushed him aside.

“Get the fuck outta my way,” he directed, then walked right past him on quick steps to sprint back down the hall and rounded a corner to march down into the basement. 

When Mickey entered, he immediately strode across the room toward the drainage sink beside the washer and cursed under his breath again as he leaned over, reached behind it and twisted the little blue knob that was the main water valve and shut it off. Then he paused and listened, hearing the gushing flow from the bathroom above him suddenly cease and his brother let out a cheer that made him roll his eyes. Mickey then turned around with another sigh and made his way back upstairs. When he rounded the corner once more and began back down the hallway toward the flooded bathroom, Iggy poked his head out from inside, seeing his older brother approach once more and emerged to meet him. 

“Thanks, man,” Iggy offered gratefully, then gave his head a shake, “I never woulda figured that shit out,” he chuckled, appearing to be in a much lighter mood now that water was no longer spraying from the wall, “I appreciate it,” he said. 

“Well you sure as fuck better figure the rest of it out,” Mickey countered pointedly, then gestured around to the giant puddle now slowly soaking into the floor, “This ain't exactly the kinda shit you can just fuckin' leave to dry on it's own,” he informed him firmly, then took a sweeping glance around the space, “Bunch of this shit is gonna need to be fuckin' replaced now,” said Mickey, “Not that a little fuckin' mold would make this shithole any worse,” he muttered a bit lower, but his brother didn't seem very concerned, merely pulling a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, lighting one and taking a deep, quick puff. 

“You can help me get this shit fixed up in no time though, can't ya Mick?” offered Iggy, to which Mickey simply looked back at the man like he was insane. 

“What the fuck makes you think I'm gonna have anything to do with this?” he snapped, causing his brother to suddenly appear offended and betrayed. 

“You said you’d help,” replied Iggy, almost with a whine in his voice, but the other man refused to relent in the slightest. 

“The fuck I did,” Mickey spat out incredulously, “I never agreed to this shit,” he said, then pointed toward the swampy restroom nearby, “You made the fuckin' mess, Iggy. So you fuckin’ clean it up,” he stated bluntly, “I don't wanna fuckin’ be here at all, man,” said Mickey. 

“But you did say you'd fucking help me,” Iggy insisted, his tone laced with desperation, “I don't know the first fucking thing about any of this,” he said, sounding like he was already on the verge of begging, then exhaled another plume of smoke, “I need you, man,” he pleaded. Mickey looked at his brother, silently weighing his options, then gave his own head a slight shake as well. 

“I can get you the fuckin' materials and tell you how to do shit,” he offered slowly, then held a very honest, yet firm expression, “But my hands are fuckin’ full right now, Iggs. You know that,” said Mickey, then snatched cigarette from his brother's fingers to pull a drag himself, “So that's the best I can fuckin' do for ya,” he exhaled, then turned away to begin walking back through the house toward the front door, but Iggy stopped him with a hand atop his shoulder. 

“Mickey,” Iggy tried again slowly, causing the man to halt his steps for a moment, “Please,” he said, “If I don’t get this place at least back to the way it fucking was, Terry’s gonna come home and get pissed,” he explained and Mickey knew just well as Iggy did just how true that was, turning to meet his brother's eyes, to listen and hear him, “I'm not good with this shit like you are,” said Iggy, seemingly swallowing his pride to be honest with him and he pressed his lips together, “I need you here, man,” he emphasized once more and the desperation from his voice began to fill his face, “Please fucking help me, Mick,” he said. 

Mickey flicked his thumb over the filter of the cigarette between his fingers and looked over the other man's face, taking in every word he'd said and thought again. He'd rather be doing anything that be back here again, for any length of time. And he was being truthful in the fact that his hands were full, full of work, full of preparation and focus on what exactly he was going to fucking so once their father was back on the streets. He still also wanted to have time to see Ian, for the short amount of time he was able to see him. 

But this was family, his brother, his blood, one of the few people on the planet Mickey would truly do anything for and as much he really didn't like the idea, now was no different. He couldn't leave Iggy to face their father alone, not like this, not when he knows Iggy would never do that Mickey himself either, just like he hadn't left him before. He pulled another puff of smoke into his lungs, then breathed it out into a cloud in front of his face. 

“I'll think about it,” Mickey replied finally, quietly, keeping Iggy's eye contact for only a second before his gaze flickered away, “I ain't makin' any fuckin' promises though, man,” he said, then looked back over and pointed at him, “And you still fuckin' owe me, you got that?” A hint of relief suddenly reappeared within his brother's face and he saw him grin easily with a nod, knowing that answer was much better than a no, and reached to snatch his cigarette back. 

“Any fucking thing, man,” Iggy agreed surely, then pulled a drag from the cigarette, “Any fucking time,” he added, then tipped his chin, “I'll call you,” he said. The dark haired man held his gaze on him just a moment longer, mirroring his nod, then sucked his teeth and flicked his head.

“I'm outta here,” said Mickey, then gave a brief point back down the hall, “Better grab a fuckin' mop,” he directed, to which his brother simply grinned a little wider, flipped him off, then tipped his chin once more in departure. And at that Mickey was back out the door, climbing back into his truck and began back down the road toward the Red Swan. 

Just like before, he drove a bit faster than he normally would, really fucking hoping that Ian wasn't already tied up with another client and would have some time to see Mickey instead. He was also still frustrated with being side tracked by Iggy, but tried to brush it off, much more focused on his current destination and the man he hoped would still be there. Mickey wasn't super late tonight, but he was later than usual, so he just sped up a little more, determined to make it to the massage parlor as quickly as he could. 

Then when he pulled up and parked, he stepped out to approach the door and enter the building, silently cursing under his breath once again at the way he felt his still wet feet squish inside his shoes with every step he took. But Mickey was here now and he was determined to carry on despite how uncomfortable it felt. He knew it wouldn't matter in the slightest once the redhead's hands were on him, once he got to feel Ian's incredible, incomparable touch against his skin. Right now Mickey felt he'd put up with most anything as long as he got to see his masseuse in the end. A little discomfort would be well worth it. 

So as he walked through the entry way and approached the front desk just like he had before, Mickey now strode with a bit more confidence, still eager to begin another session with Ian and didn't flinch or hesitate when the very same woman behind the desk raised her eyes to meet his own and smiled as he stepped closer. The woman curled her hand to rest beneath her chin as she eyed him, then arched an eyebrow with a blink. 

“Back again, are we?” she smiled smugly, but the dark haired man merely creased his brow and cocked his head.

“Nah, I'm just a figment of your fuckin' imagination,” quipped Mickey with a scoff, “The fuck does it look like?” he frowned as his feet stopped in front of her, really not in any mood for this woman's subtle banter and flashed a glance toward the hall. The receptionist held her expression and blinked again. 

“It looks to me like you don't have an appointment,” she observed with a glance down at her clipboard, then met his eyes once more as the man scoffed again. 

“Didn't think I fuckin’ needed one,” Mickey replied, then flashed another glance toward the corridor beside them, “He should be fuckin' expectin’ me anyway,” he added, to which the woman raised her brow and titled her head as well. 

“I wouldn't be so sure, sir,” she countered smoothly and Mickey scrunched his face a bit at that.

“The fuck ya talkin' about?” he queried with confusion. The receptionist turned to eye the clock behind her for just a second, then looked back up into his face. 

“Your masseuse clocked out just about thirty minutes ago,” she revealed. The dark haired man dropped his shoulders, then his face and pinched the bridge of his nose with a mixture of irritation and disappointment.

“Fuck,” mumbled Mickey. He exhaled thickly through his nose, then looked back up at the woman behind the desk, “When the fuck is he workin' again then?” he asked. The receptionist turned her face back down toward the papers in front of her, then flipped through a few, pausing on one to scan with her eyes, before letting them flutter back down to her clipboard. 

“Monday evening,” she replied, causing the man to shift his feet and chew his lip, clearly still disappointed at this information, then sucked his teeth and gave a nod. 

“Alright,” Mickey accepted rather uneasily, but didn't feel as though he had any right to complain as he really had not in fact made an appointment and had merely assumed the man would still be here and be available to see him, then made a point with his thumb toward the door behind him.

“I'll come back then,” he said. But just before Mickey made a motion to turn around and leave the woman stopped him. 

“We have other workers available now,” she informed him, “If you'd still prefer to be seen tonight?” the woman offered with a single arched eyebrow and Mickey hesitated, raising his palm to rub the back of his neck. 

“Uh, I don't fuckin' know about that,” he said, but the woman persisted. 

“Well, they may not exactly be the type you prefer,” she said, looking at him in a very particular way that the man just tried to ignore, then she shrugged a single shoulder, “But they are still very capable and do very good work,” the woman smiled sweetly, “I'm sure at least one of them would be able to fulfill your needs this evening?” she queried. 

Mickey hesitated again, his teeth still gnawing at the corner of his mouth, because he really wasn't sure. He knew that all the other masseuses at the Red Swan were women and he'd rather not be touched by anyone of the opposite sex aside from maybe his sister because typically such touches not only disgusted him, but they bought back thoughts of times before when he was much younger that he'd prefer to not recall. But he also didn't want to have driven down here for nothing, thinking that perhaps some kind of massage, some kind of distraction might still do him some good, even if it didn't come from Ian. Mickey tried to remind himself that it was really Ian's services that seemed to help him so much and not necessarily the man himself. Then he thought that if he just tried to focus on the sensation, and not so much the person giving it to him, maybe it could still work? Maybe just a little bit, at least. So he thought another moment, twiddling his fingers at his side’s before he raised a single hand to thumb his nose, then arched a sharp eyebrow. 

“Like who?” asked Mickey. The woman smirked at his reply, then peered back down toward her desk, flipping back through a few sheets of paper, then smacked her lips with a pop.

“Karen is very popular,” she said as her eyes continued to scan the list of workers, “She’s had many positive reviews from her clients,” the woman continued, then raised her face to look at Mickey once more, “And she has an open slot right now,” she mentioned, “If you'd be interested?” she queried, looking at him curiously and waiting for his response. The dark haired man let out a defeated sigh and thought ‘fuck it’ and offered a single tip of his chin in return. 

“What fuckin' room is she in?” he asked, to which the receptionist smiled sweetly once more and gave a point toward the hallway. 

“First door on the right,” she said, then laced her fingers together atop her desk, still watching him, still waiting, until the man finally gave a nod. 

“Fine,” said Mickey. The woman pursed her lips, then reached to push a button just like she had the first time he'd arrived and heard a low buzz sound from just around the corner when she did. 

“Wonderful,” the woman smiled, “She’ll be expecting you now,” she said. 

Mickey pressed his lips tight and forced down a grumble, willing himself to try, no matter how uncomfortable he still was at the thought of some random woman putting her hands all over him. But he still went, slowly, almost painstakingly, already beginning to regret his decision even before he approached Karen's doorway. Then as he stepped beneath the arch, he paused, crinkling his nose at the overwhelming scent of chamomile that hit him in the face like a fucking brick wall and let his eyes move around the room. 

It looked pretty much the same as Ian's, though it was a bit dimmer, softer, glowing slightly with a rosy, pinkish hue from a thin, red scarf that was draped over a lampshade in the corner. The divider tucked into the other corner was white, imprinted with delicate floral lace and there were several cases lit within the space. There was also a large, framed mirror hanging from the wall at the far end of the massage table that perplexed Mickey a bit, but figured it was to give the woman's clients a better view while she performed whatever act they'd paid her to do. He swallowed a cringe at the thought just as a short, petite woman with blonde hair that hung at her shoulders suddenly appeared from behind the changing divider, then stood within the mirror to tie it back atop her head. She caught his reflection behind her, then turned with a rather seductive smirk on her lips and a feathery bat of her eyelashes. 

“Well hello handsome,” the young woman greeted, then dropped her gaze a bit to trail down along the man's body, “You're sure a sight for sore eyes,” she observed, then pushed out her lip and gave a small shrug as her eyes landed on his face again, “Maybe a little shorter than I typically like, but still nice,” she smiled. 

Mickey rolled his tongue beneath his lip with a small frown on his face and said nothing, watching as the woman began walking closer to him, wearing a skirt that showed way too much leg and a low cut top that showed way too much cleavage. Then she smiled again and licked her lips. 

“I'm Karen,” she said, then clutched a hand to her hip as she continued to look him over, “But you can call me anything you'd like,” the woman added. 

“How much for a fuckin' back rub?” asked Mickey, cutting straight to the chase, really not interested in anything else from this woman. Karen ran the tip of her tongue over her teeth in thought, then rubbed her lips together. 

“My prices start at a hundred an hour,” she replied, then arched a flirtatious eyebrow, “Plus fifty for any extras,” Karen added with a pointed expression, but the man was quick to correct her. 

“Just need a fuckin' back rub,” Mickey assured firmly, “I'm not fuckin' interested in any of that extra shit,” he said with a head shake. But Karen didn't falter, though she didn't budge either, merely offering a nod as her smile stayed stuck to her lips. 

“Whatever you'd like,” she agreed, then upturned a palm to gesture further inside the room, silently asking the man to enter so they could start. 

As Mickey stepped inside, Karen moved to shut the door behind him, then waved a hand toward her massage table for him to sit, which he did, although a bit stiffly. She began to round the table, then pointed to the changing divider in the corner. 

“Would you like to put on a towel?” asked Karen, to which her client shook his head again almost instantly. 

“No,” said Mickey, but the woman still didn't appear phased, holding her smile as she paused her steps behind him. 

“Okay,” Karen replied simply with the slightest hint of an amused chuckle lacing her voice, “Do you have a name I can call you?” she asked instead, but Mickey still feeling quite uncomfortable just shook his head once more. 

“No,” he repeated, causing the woman behind him to grin again. 

“Ooh, a man of mystery,” she noted in an appealing tone, “I like that,” praised Karen. 

Mickey shifted where he sat, but ignored the woman's words, because he really honestly didn't give a single shit what she liked or what she didn’t. He was irritated, annoyed and his back fucking hurt, so he'd really rather she just shut her mouth and get on with it, biting his tongue and hoping the hassle of having to see Karen instead of Ian was going to be worth the time and discomfort or not. And Mickey was not feeling at all confident about it, but he swallowed his feelings and stayed where he was. Then he heard her smile once again and she tapped her fingertips atop the table beside him.

“Still have to take your shirt off for me though, if you expect me to work on your back,” informed Karen, and the dark haired man internally groaned, “Please,” she added. He chewed his lip, scratched his eyebrow with his thumb, then grasped the bottom of his shirt to pull it up over his head. “Thank you,” said Karen. 

Mickey fought an eye roll, then scrunched his nose and thumbed it at the heavy, hazy scent still wafting around the room, just before the cool grasp of a thin, dainty hand kneaded lightly over the back of his shoulder blade and he tried not to jump at the strange and foreign touch against his skin. He tried not to frown any further as her other hand met the first and skinny, delicate fingers began probing through his flesh, but then the woman leaned forward just a bit and he felt the hot, damp hint of her breath behind his ear. 

“Tell me where it hurts,” said Karen, causing the man to arch his head away in annoyance. 

“Just my fuckin’ shoulders,” replied Mickey, “No where else,” he added firmly. 

Mickey knew there was absolutely no way he was going to be able to let himself get comfortable, not with some random woman touching him. He didn't even want to think about where her hands have probably been just before putting them on his back, causing him to shift his spine again, fighting down a shudder of disgust. Then he felt her palms move upward to squeeze the tops of his shoulders with an uncomfortably unfamiliar grasp. 

“Whatever you say,” the young woman replied and she giggled just a bit, “Whoever you are,” he heard Karen smile. 

Mickey closed his eyes and let her touch him, let her rub at his muscles and knead into his back, still with just a bit of hope lingering in the back of his mind that the woman knew what she was doing, that this was worth his time, that it was the service that helped him, not the person who provides it. But as he sat atop the massage table, feeling every poke and prod and squeeze, he just couldn't find Karen's massage satisfying in the slightest. Her hands her too cool, too small and just not strong enough to properly manipulate the knots within his flesh to untangle them the way Ian could and it just didn't compare. He fought not to remain stiff as the woman slid her hands down just a bit to push the pads of her thumbs under the bottoms of his shoulder blades. 

“You carry a lot of tension here,” Karen observed, leaning forward again and Mickey could feel the heat of her chest lingering much too close to his back for his liking, “Do you have tension in other places too?” she asked, her voice laced in a bit of a particular tone, and the hint of Karen's breath returned beside his ear, “I can help with that,” the woman offered, the seductive tone in her voice that time, loud and clear, causing Mickey to crease his brow and shot her an extremely disinterested glance over his shoulder. 

“Keep your hands where I fuckin' tell ya,” Mickey directed with warning in his tone, then gave his head a shake, “I told ya I ain't interested in shit else, except a fuckin' back rub,” he said, his annoyance rising back into irritation and agitation and then he felt Karen lean even closer and her hands smoothed down the length of his back toward his hips as she pressed her cleavage against his skin.

“Oh, but I'm really very good,” Karen insisted, “I can use my hands in lots of other ways,” she whispered into his ear as she smoothed her palms around his hips and grasped, just before she spoke a little lower, “My throat can do some pretty amazing things too,” she revealed.

Then Karen tried to curl her hands around him further and move them into his lap, but at that Mickey had had enough and swiftly leaned away from her, moving to stand and face the woman with a look of repulsion on his face. 

“You just don't know when to fuckin' quit do ya?” Mickey spat, “Or maybe you're just willfully fuckin' deaf,” he said, trying to control his anger that this bitch was wasting his time, then narrowed his eyes into a glare, “I don't gotta pay to get my fuckin' dick sucked,” he stated thickly through his teeth, then let his eyes fall down along the woman's body in a very unimpressed manner, the disgust and repulsion still etched into the features of his face, “Especially not gonna pay for some skinny, little whore to do it,” said Mickey, then met her eyes, “Must be snortin' too much fuckin' blow or somethin’ if you think I'm gonna,” he scoffed. Karen raised her eyebrows, but didn't very shocked, in fact still rather easily smug, then crossed her arms and look at him pointedly. 

“You're the one who sought out my services,” countered Karen, then raised her chin in a very confident way, “I was just letting you know what else I have to offer,” she said, then smiled sweetly, “And I can be very persuasive,” she added with a bat of her eyes, but Mickey just held his glare as his lips pressed together with a head cock. 

“Find yourself a different cock to choke on, bitch,” he said, then pulled his shirt back over his head and moved to leave the room because fuck if he was paying for that bullshit, making his way back down the hallway with a grumble. 

He avoided the receptionist’s gaze as he exited the building and climbed back into his truck, grumbling and cursing under his breath all over again. If Mickey wasn't pissed off before, he sure as fuck was now. What a stupid fucking idea that was and pointless as all hell, already trying to banish the experience from his mind as he lit a cigarette and peeled out of the parking lot. 

It'd all been a huge waste of time; dealing with Iggy, not leaving the Red Swan the moment he discovered that Ian had already left for the night. And above all, having some blonde little slut be so goddamned persistent in trying to force other services on him, services he had absolutely no fucking interest in, at least not now and definitely not from her. ‘Fuck.’

Mickey pulled a deep drag of smoke into his lungs and held it for a second before exhaling through his nose with a brow rub, just wanting to go home, just wanting to sleep. He'd had enough for today and was ready to bring it to an end, as exhausted and disappointing as it was. 

All he could really hope now is that maybe his dreams would make him feel better, of green eyes and freckled skin, dreams of a particular redheaded man that he still couldn't get off his mind, but now just felt so far away. He held his frown, pulled another drag from his cigarette, then exhaled with a heavy sigh, and Mickey suddenly felt like Monday couldn't possibly come fast enough.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally been able to update something!!  
> So, lately for me, it's been very difficult to scrape together any time to write anything. But after slowly persisting whenever I've had a few minutes, I have finally completed this chapter! :)  
> I really hope it's worth the wait and I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts!  
> Thank you for reading!

That weekend seemed to go much too slowly for Mickey's liking. Each day just seemed to drag on, and every like ache or pain that prickled through the muscles in his back irritated him quite a bit more than they usually did. He was also still agitated from his last trip to the Red Swan and his experience with that pushy, little whore Karen, whose unwanted touch seemed to have stained his pores and no shower was hot enough to wash it off. 

As much as Mickey generally did not like being touched by anyone, being touched by women particularly was extremely uncomfortable for him no matter what woman it was. But there was a reason for that, an understandable reason Mickey always tried to convince himself, though he genuinely hated thinking about why. Besides Mandy, the touch from anyone of the opposite sex made his stomach twist in a painful way and he really just felt sick. And the impression of Karen's hands curling around his hips in an attempt to grab his cock just wouldn't go away as much as he tried to ignore it. 

He has also quickly grown annoyed once again with his brother, as Iggy had been relentlessly trying to get a hold of him all weekend long, which Mickey completely ignored. The man had called at least once every couple hours and sent far more texts as well, still wondering if and when Mickey would be able to come back to the house again and help him out with all of the damage he'd unintentionally caused. Mickey didn't plan to ignore him forever, but had no want to respond to Iggy just yet either, still half trying to convince himself to find a way out of it instead. The dread of knowing he would more than likely be forced to go back again, forced to spend far more time back inside that house than he'd hoped he ever would, still clung heavy to his shoulders and Mickey was in no mood to rush it.

Mickey wanted so very badly for the weekend to just end, something he always wanted, but much more powerfully than he usually did. He just wanted to go to work, do his job, and end Monday evening with a trip back to the Red Swan to see his usual masseuse, the right masseuse, to go see Ian again. Somehow Mickey still knew how much it would help him now just like it had before, even if he'd still never admit it to anyone, not even really himself. He was just trying to be patient, because even if the day had arrived, Mickey still had to wait. 

When Monday morning finally arrived, Mickey didn't exactly wake up excited, but he sure was anxious, really fucking anxious and it seemed to make that morning move even slower than the weekend had. He woke early and dressed, got ready and gathered his things just like he always did, then locked his door and began down the hall to head downstairs when his cellphone suddenly vibrated within his pocket, pushing an annoyed groan up from his chest, just hoping that it wasn't his brother again. He pulled the phone from his pocket, took a squint at the screen seeing he had a text message, then sighed with only a slight bit of relief when he saw who sent it, just before he pressed his lips together and opened the message. 

‘Coffee? Usual spot?’ it read simply. 

Mickey covered a yawn with his fist as he read it, his brow creasing deeply from the lingering lacing of slumber behind his eyes, then gave a small, internal shrug, knowing he could use it.

‘Fine,’ he replied. 

Mickey pushed his cellphone back inside his pocket as he stepped inside the elevator, then exited on the main floor, gave a nod toward his doorman who stood posted in his usual spot, and climbed inside his truck to go meet his sister before work. 

When he arrived at the little coffee shop on the corner that stood on the northern most edge of Southside, the sun had barely risen yet, painting the sky a delicate, rougey pink, with the slightest, softest speckling of clouds lingering just above the horizon. Mickey pulled into the cramped, little parking lot beside the building to see Mandy at her preferred patio spot, smoking a cigarette and waiting patiently at a table with two large portable coffee cups and a small paper bag beside them. He rubbed the remaining sleep from his eyes, turned his engine off, then climbed out of his truck to approach her. She smiled as he walked closer, then reached for one of the coffee cups in front of her and raised it out to him in offering. 

“Got your coffee for you,” smiled Mandy, then pulled a drag of smoke. Her brother raised a skeptical eyebrow as he pulled out a chair to sit. 

“You fuckin' sure about that?” queried Mickey, but his sister merely held her expression and gave a simple blink. 

“Dark roast, light cream, extra sugar,” she offered. 

Mickey lowered his eyebrow, gave a single approving nod, then reached to take the cup. He took a long, slow drink as he sat down across from her and sighed as he swallowed. Mandy smiled again, appearing quite pleased with both herself and her brother's reaction to the soothe of his morning brew, then took a sip from her own cup. She then set it down and reached for paper bag atop the table instead, crinkling it as she opened it up to slip her hand inside. 

“Got you something else too,” said Mandy as her hand rummaged around a bit and she peeked inside to make sure she grabbed the correct thing. The dark haired man creased his brow and scoffed. 

“Your favorite,” she grinned, then extracted her hand and held it out to reveal a large, heavily glazed cinnamon roll in her grip. Her brother eyed the pastry, licked his lips, but didn't move to take it, instead creasing his brow a bit further. 

“The fuck you do that for?” asked Mickey, knowing full well he was capable of buying his own breakfast, but the woman still just held her smile. 

“Because you're my big brother and fucking love you, asshole,” smiled Mandy as she flicked the filter of her cigarette out into the street, then set the pastry down in front of him, just before reaching back inside the bag and pulling out a big, moist, blueberry muffin for herself. She began to unwrap it when she glanced back up to see that Mickey still hadn't touched his pastry and gave the roll a point, “Will you please just eat the damn thing?” urged Mandy, then rolled her eyes as they fell back down to her own breakfast, “Shit Mickey, you act like I'm trying to fucking poison you or something,” she said, then pinched off a small piece of muffin and popped it in her mouth. 

Mickey exhaled through his nose, just wanting to move forward and get on with his day and relented, taking another sip of coffee before unwrapping his cinnamon roll. He took a large bite then set it back down, sucking the pad of his thumb into his mouth to lick off a bit of glaze, then looked back up at his sister when he heard her fingernails begin tapping lightly against the table. Their eyes met and Mandy pursed her lips, looking like she was thinking, like she wanted to say something, to which Mickey simply raised his brow expectantly in wait. The woman curled her tongue behind her cheek and gave a blink. 

“So, how have you been holding up the past couple weeks?” asked Mandy. Mickey blinked as well at her question, taking another bite from his cinnamon roll and offered a very uncommitted shrug, not in much of a mood to talk about it at all. 

“Same shit, different fuckin' day,” replied Mickey, “You know how it is,” he chewed, to which his sister pressed her lips together, flattened her expression a bit and looked at him very seriously. 

“You know that's not what I mean, Mick,” Mandy corrected, leaning forward just a bit and speaking a little lower. 

“What the fuck do you mean then, Mandy?” Mickey spat back with a little more heat in his tone than intended, knowing what Mandy wanted to talk about which was something he definitely still didn’t. She pinched off another small bite of muffin, pushed it between her lips with her fingertip and began to chew. 

“I meant since I told you about dad getting out,” rephrased Mandy, then raised her brow with question once more, “How are you holding up? What have you been doing?” she asked again, pressing much more than Mickey preferred. Her brother chewed another bite of his own pastry with an exhale through his nose, peering across the table at his sister like she'd just asked him a completely ridiculous question, then swallowed behind a frown and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. 

“How am I spendin’ my last fuckin' days breathin’, ya mean?” Mickey rephrased as well, to which Mandy frustratingly pursed her lips, “That's what you're really fuckin' gettin' at, ain't It?” he continued with a chin tip, “Have I figured out what the fuck I'm gonna do?” Mickey queried further, then let slip a rather dark, bitter chuckle, then shook his head as he swallowed a hot, steamy gulp of coffee, “Nah Mandy,” he breathed, “I still don't fuckin' know what I'm gonna do,” admitted Mickey, finding no real reason to lie to his sister, as pathetic as the truth of the situation made him feel.

He was in no position to pull up his roots and take off just yet, even if Mickey truly wanted to even if he needed to, not without fucking himself over even worse in the long run. And this was something Mandy and Mickey both knew, even if they'd never really spoken much about it. Not to mention deep down, Mickey really didn't want to take off anyway, not after what he'd earned, everything he'd worked so hard to achieve, and not even under threat of his father trying to find and destroy it all. Deep down, he knew it was worth fighting for, no matter how scared he was. But fuck, was Mickey still petrified. 

The black haired woman, rubbed the few muffin crumbs from her fingertips as she sipped on her own coffee as well, watching the man's demeanor in silence for a moment, observing him, then parted her lips to speak. 

“Well, we still have some time,” reminded Mandy, “We'll figure it all out soon enough,” she assured, to which Mickey simply screwed up his face with a scoff. 

“The fuck is all this ‘we' shit?” Mickey queried bluntly with confusion and arched his brow at her, “This shit don't have any fuckin' thing to do with you, Mandy,” he informed her with a head shake, “So don't fuckin' involve yourself,” he advised firmly, then took a deep, long drink from his coffee cup, as the woman across from him let slip a small scoff. 

“You think I'm just gonna fucking leave you to deal with this shit alone?” his sister asked incredulously, sounding as if she thought the notion absolutely absurd, but Mickey only arched an eyebrow as he swallowed his gulp of brew. 

“Better I handle this shit myself than let you weasel your ass into the fuckin' middle of it,” Mickey replied surely, then looked at her very sternly, “This is my bullshit, not yours Mands,” he said, “Don't fuckin' worry about it.” Mandy pursed her lips again and held her expression. 

“I'm just trying to help you, Mickey,” she said, but her brother simply split a frown and arched another insistent eyebrow. 

“Well I don't need your fuckin' help,” spat Mickey, “So just stay the fuck out of it,” he said, his tone laced with a bit more heat than he'd intended again, but it didn't seem to phase her any. 

“Well if you won't let me help you, something fucking has to,” Mandy snapped back with frustration in her tone, watching as her brother paused at her reaction with a warning narrow in his eyes, but she refused to hold her tongue, “If you don't, the stress is gonna fucking kill you before Terry ever gets a chance to,” she informed him bluntly, seeing the man across from her curl his lower lip behind his teeth as he listened, as much as he'd rather not hear it, “How the fuck are you supposed to think straight and figure this shit out if you keep everything bottled up like this?” asked Mandy.

Mickey held the glare in his eyes for just a short moment, before dropping his gaze back down to his coffee cup and taking another sip. He knew she was right, even if he refused to admit it, but it didn't make accepting the fact any easier. He also really didn't want to involve his sister if he could help it, didn't want to put her in harm's way because of him. She had gotten out and gotten away just like he had and no matter what may happen when their father was released, he had no intention of dragging her back into it. The only way Mickey felt he could protect her now was by keeping her at arm's length, even if that meant keeping everything else locked away deep inside for no one else to see. This was his problem and no one else's and no one could deal with it but him. Mickey tapped his fingertips against his paper coffee cup, then scratched the bridge of his nose with the back of his thumb, before raising his eyes back up to his sister. 

“Just mind your own fuckin' business, Mandy,” he said quietly, letting his gaze flicker back down to the table, “Don't fuckin' worry about it,” repeated Mickey, “I'll deal with it how I wanna fuckin’ deal with the shit,” he said, “That's all you need to fuckin' know.” The dark haired woman pressed her lips together with a sharp purse, then grasped her coffee in one hand, her muffin in the other and moved to rise from the table. 

“Fine,” said Mandy, “Do whatever the fuck you want then,” she advised, "I don't give a shit," she spat, then turned her face away to begin walking down the street toward the bus stop so she could head to work. Mickey watched her go for a moment, then exhaled as he dropped his face, cursed under his breath and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. 

As much as Mickey hated causing a rift between himself and his sister, in this case he honestly felt it may be for the best. He knew he would probably call her again in a few days to apologize, but he probably still wouldn't talk much, because the less she knew, the better. He didn't want her to worry about him, even though he knew she would anyway. That's just how Mandy was. But Mickey also knew he had enough to deal with right now, not including his disagreement with his sister, so he just tried to push it all down and bury it with the rest of his stress that still lingered beneath the surface. Mickey would revisit it again later when he was less irritated and for now, he just wanted to head to work, get the day over with so he could drive back down to the Red Swan and see Ian, the only thing he had to look forward to right now. So, he gathered his coffee and his cinnamon roll, rose from the table himself, then walked back over to his truck, climbed inside and pulled out of the parking lot to do just that.

But to Mickey's extreme frustration, his work day moved slow as fuck and his stress only seemed to keep building up because of it. He tried all day long to avoid walking off site to take sips from his flask, but fuck was it difficult when no one seemed to be able to do anything right and everything seemed to keep going wrong. He spent more time yelling at his subordinates and correcting their errors than much of anything else and just kept trying to ignore Patrick's prying eyes as he climbed up onto the forklift to take control of things himself. Mickey also spent most of the day ignoring more texts and calls from Iggy and eventually became so annoyed and irritated by them he just turned his cell phone off instead. And to top it all off, his back still fucking hurt, throbbed, and flared more than it had in weeks which only made him all the more angry with everything else as the day went on.

Mickey was starting to hate being at work today, something that he usually genuinely enjoyed, but he just couldn't seem to focus, couldn't seem to calm, because no matter how hard he tried, his mind was still elsewhere and nothing seemed to keep it from straying. He was already done with today long before he clocked out and had finally become fed up just a few hours before they usually wrapped up, needing to get out of there before his mood could get any worse, though Mickey really doubted that it could anyway. 

So eventually, Mickey handed things off to Patrick, letting him take over for the rest of the evening and telling him that he had other important things to take care of, but if something else went wrong to call him immediately just like he always did. And like always, Patrick gave him a simple nod and his assurance not to worry, that everything would keep on as planned, telling him to go handle his shit and he'd see him back on site in the morning. As much as Mickey despised walking off site before the day was over, he thought it better for everyone, including himself that he go, because he was far too preoccupied to focus anyway. 

As he walked out to his truck, he lit up a cigarette and inhaled deep as he climbed inside and threw his hard hat into the passenger seat, finally allowing himself to fetch his flask and down a quick, sharp gulp, hoping to take the edge off. Mickey pulled another drag of smoke and blew it out as he started up the engine and began driving back down the street. 

The closer Mickey drove toward the Red Swan, the more eager and excited he seemed to get, the same familiar anxious tingle reappearing along his pores and he couldn't help but drive a little faster, willing his mood to calm as he neared toward his destination. Especially after Friday, when he'd foolishly let himself be touched and rubbed by that skinny blonde skank, because Ian hadn't been available, Mickey was even antsier than before and he just hoped that the sensation of the redhead's wide, firm hands would wash the lingering discomfort away. Ian's touch seemed to be the only thing that really helped him lately, the only thing that made him calm and relax even a little bit, considering all he'd been dealing with, even if he'd probably never admit it. 

When he arrived, he parked, but as eager as Mickey was to go inside, he still hesitated for a moment, suddenly debating with himself a bit if he should even step out of his truck. He didn't want to appear desperate or weak, didn't want to appear pathetic by showing up again so soon, his stubbornness and pride almost yelling at him to pull right back out of the lot and drive away, but still he stayed put. He tapped his thumbs along the edge of his steering wheel and chewed his lip for moment in thought. Though Mickey reminded himself again that Ian was a professional that he was simply paying for a service, a service that helped him be able to relax, be able to work without pain, able to let his mind become distracted from the stress that constantly tormented him within every waking moment as of late. Mickey took a moment to convince himself that it wasn't out of desperation that he was here, that it was nothing to be ashamed of and only an outlet for his physical pain and troubling thoughts, that many other people did this very same thing. And after another moment, he turned the key within his ignition to shut his engine off, then took a slow breath just before he pushed open the door of his vehicle and made steps up toward the building to walk inside. 

This time when he strode through the narrow little entryway and approached the front desk, Mickey was still able to hide his nerves and hardened his expression the same way he pretty much always did. He stepped forward with a swift, intentful strut and refused to let it falter as the usual receptionist behind the desk smiled up at him and quirked her eyebrow at his presence. 

“Welcome back, sir,” she greeted sweetly, “Wasting no time today, I see,” the woman observed with a hint of knowing smugness in her tone, batting her eyes as she held her expression on the young man in front of her. Mickey simply pressed his lips together and arched a sharp eyebrow of his own right back at her. 

“And yet you're already wastin' it for me,” Mickey shot right back as he paused in front of her desk, then flashed his eyes toward the hall beside them for an instant before he narrowed his gaze back on her, “Just tell me if he's fuckin' here or not,” he directed impatiently, “Fuck the fuckin' introductions,” he huffed out in annoyance, but the receptionist just held her red lipped smile. 

“Why yes he is, sir,” she replied easily, not seeming to take any offense from his tone, and raised a single hand to rest under her chin, “I believe his room is open right now as well,” the woman added. The dark haired man gave a single nod then thumbed his lip and gave a point. 

“Well go push your little fuckin' button then and let him know I'm comin’,” advised Mickey, taking a single small step toward the hallway and chewing the same lip he'd thumbed, “I'm kinda in a fuckin' hurry,” he said, which honestly wasn't a complete lie, but this bitch didn't need any fucking details.

“I see that,” she replied, then smirked at him lightly, “Most people who come here are,” she said, then pursed her lips as she turned her body and looked away to push down on a single button atop her room panel. The woman tucked a long, frizzy lock of hair behind her ear, flashed the young man hardly a second glance, then offered a vague wave of her hand toward the hallway, “Your chosen worker has been informed of your arrival,” she hummed, “Enjoy your session, sir,” she said, returning her attention away, leaving Mickey to turn as well and began making steps down the hall with a particular redhead in mind and a craving that yearned for it's quench. 

With each step, he could feel the intensity of his heartbeat rising up into his throat, along with a flittery swam of butterflies twisting around inside his guts, causing Mickey to suddenly move his feet a bit slower as he swallowed his nerves all over again. But then as Mickey stopped his feet just outside the last room on the left, he exhaled, scraping together his courage and bracing himself behind a hard, unreadable mask as he poked his face inside. And then when his eyes landed on the tall handsome redhead who stood inside the room, his breath slowed just like it had before with the smallest, airy huff being clogged inside his throat. 

Ian stood beside his massage table, bent over just a bit, with his hands at work, gliding a dampened hand towel along it's length, cleaning it in ready for his next client and his face focused down in front of him. He had on a green tank top and gray sweatpants, clothes that clung to his body is very same perfect ways it had before and Mickey paused to admire the now familiar speckling spatter of freckles that sprinkled his shoulders and trickled down his arms, wrapping around each thick flex of pale muscle as they moved across the table. And as always the bright burst of flaming hair atop his head caught Mickey's eyes and made him bite his lip just slightly. 

Mickey kind of enjoyed just watching him, looking at him, but also didn't want to appear to be a creep, and gave the man's face and body one final sweeping glance before he reached over toward the open door, then gave it two small knocks with his knuckle, clearing his throat as he did. Ian's hands paused at the sound and his eyes flashed upward toward the archway into the hall, noticing that it was Mickey that stood beneath it, which instantly seemed to pull his cheeks up into a surprised and delighted smile at his arrival, clearly not expecting it. 

“Oh, hey,” said Ian, just before his grin spread just a little wider, “Mickey,” he greeted easily, yet curiously, shooting the clock above the doorway a quick, small glance, “Wasn’t expecting to see you today,” he said as his gaze fell back to him with a single eyebrow arched. The dark haired man chewed his lip a bit, then arched an eyebrow of his own. 

“You expecting to see someone fuckin' else right now?” Mickey queried in reply, really fucking hoping that he wasn't, but Ian just held his smile and gave his head a single shake. 

“Not for a couple more hours,” he said, then took the other man in a bit, watching as he nodded at his words, then shifted his feet a bit, not yet moving to enter the room just yet and kept his brow curiously arched, “Were you interested in a massage today?” asked Ian, to which the dark haired man thumbed his lip and gave a shrug. 

“Well I sure as fuck didn't burn up my fuckin’ gas drivin' down here for nothin',” Mickey quipped back bluntly, which rose the redhead's brow a little higher, but held his expression and didn't let it throw his tone off as he chuckled at the comment and gave a single nod. Mickey curled his tongue behind his cheek, still trying to conceal his lingering nerves and offered another, very uncommitted shrug, “And I mean, if you ain't got any other shit goin’ on right now anyway..,” he added, trailing off some, then let his gaze fall once more. Ian lowered his brow, continued to hold his smile on him, then grabbed the towel from the surface of his massage table and gave his head a flick. 

“Come on in,” invited Ian. 

Mickey thumbed his lip a final time, tipped his chin in return, then took a step inside, grasping the handle on the door to shut it behind him as he did. He walked further inside, noticing the lingering scent of perhaps some flowery fucking candle that'd recently been burned and scrunched his nose a bit, which Ian noticed as he strode past him and let out another chuckle. 

“Sorry,” offered Ian, scrunching his own nose as well and giving the air a brief dispersing wave of his palm, “Had an old lady in here that has a serious fetish for patchouli oil,” he explained, “Shit takes forever to fucking air out,” he said, then tossed his hand towel into the hamper in the corner, earning him a simple small scoff. 

“Well, you seem to be the one with the fetish for the geriatric bitches, so I don't think you're sittin’ much fuckin' better,” Mickey observed with a crack, causing Ian to laugh smugly in return. 

“I can't help that I'm a charming, young gentleman that reminds them of their youth,” Ian grinned sarcastically with his chin held high and his palms upturned, then pressed his lips together and offered an elbowed shrug, “But at least they always tip well too,” he said, but Mickey only scoffed again, splitting a smirk as well.

“For bein' forced to rub the corns and bunions outta their old, wrinkled feet, I should fuckin' hope so,” Mickey quipped with a nod, causing the redhead to laugh through another smile that the dark haired man just tried not to stare at too openly. Ian then held his expression on him with a pause. 

“Well this is certainly becoming a nice change from that,” he mentioned with a lightly pointed brow toward him, and Mickey couldn't help but chew his lip again at that.

Then both of them paused, both just looking into each other's faces for a quick, quiet moment before Ian's expression and posture returned professional once more, upturning a hand toward Mickey instead. 

“So uh, do you just wanna do the same deal as last time?” asked Ian, and Mickey still just chewed his lip a bit at the memory, “Or is it just your back that’s still bothering you?” he queried. 

The other man paused his feet beside the massage table as well, dropping his eyes to slowly travel down across it, thinking. Mickey honestly hadn't thought that far ahead, having been much more focused on simply getting here, and now that Ian was in front of him, he really wasn't sure what exactly it was that he wanted from him, other than the simple touch and feel of his hands on his skin. The best way to do that so far, had been during his last visit, even if it meant stripping back down into a towel, and he curled his tongue back behind his lip as he looked back up and met his eyes. 

“Mostly just my fuckin' back,” Mickey replied honestly, then gave the redhead's body just the slightest sweeping glance before he looked away again, “But I'm still feelin' kinda shitty in other places too,” he added more lowly. 

Ian kept his eyes on him, watching him, as if trying to read something on his face that wasn't coming from his lips, but paused for only an instant as he folded his hands behind his back and gave his head a tilt. 

“Same rate for you as always,” Ian proceeded, then tipped his head toward the changing divider in the corner, “And you know where the towels are,” he reminded simply. 

Mickey gave another nod, grateful for not having to explain much further, then reached for his wallet to extract the usual sixty bucks and passed it over to Ian, who took it with a smile, then gave a final gesture toward the corner. 

“Just come out and lay down when you're ready,” he said, to which the other man just tipped his chin, then turned away, wasting no time as he strode across the short space and slipped behind the divider. 

Mickey stood behind it and took a breath as he eyed a fresh, white towel that hung along the little, metal rack, and slowly reached to unbutton his shirt, trying to ignore the unusual hint of a tremble within his fingertips. Then as he undressed and readied himself for what he already knew would be another indescribable experience, he tried not to think too hard on the way the other man's gaze seemed to linger amongst their banter, a way that already felt almost oddly too comfortable. Or Ian's comment about Mickey himself becoming a nice change from his usual clientele, was another thing he tried not to linger on. It was nothing, he tried to convince himself it wasn’t anyway, knowing it could never be anything more, not with the way his life was right now. This was just a business transaction, Mickey reminded himself, and it was nothing more than that. Then he folded his clothes, placed them neatly atop the square, little shelf beside the rack, and wrapped a towel snugly around his hips, just before he stepped back out from behind the divider, ready to start their session and push all else away. 

As he emerged, Mickey took a single step toward the massage table, then noticed Ian standing bent over his cabinet of lotions and oils on the other side of the space, rummaging around within the drawer. Mickey paused again, his eyes tracing back over the freckles in his shoulders once again, before he took another step that Ian heard, standing straight, then turning his face to look at him. And for just a split second, the man's eyes lingered, a deep green gaze, flowing swiftly across his chest and down his body then back up to his face just as quickly. Ian cleared his throat and swallowed as he turned his body more fully then directed a gesture toward the massage table. 

“Face up to begin like before?” Ian offered, to which Mickey flashed his gaze back to the table, avoiding his eyes and made the final few steps to comply without another word. 

As Mickey climbed up to lay down atop the platform, he was careful not to let his towel slip as he adjusted his back and tried to flatten his shoulders, slowly willing himself to relax in wait as the redhead moved around him and stood beside his feet. Ian then raised a little blue bottle of oil in his hand with a glance of questioning eyebrows, offering the same tingly, minty menthol fluid as before, receiving an affirming chin tip in return. So, the redhead opened the bottle, doused a single palm with a few generous drops and began slicking it between his fingers, Mickey watching all the while, unable to look away from him. Then Ian met his eyes again, then dropped them a final time as he reached to grasp Mickey's foot, and slowly began to twist his palms around it. 

The dark haired man bit his lips to cover the slightest gasp of breath that'd suddenly hitched and clogged up inside his throat, pushing it out through his nose with an exhale. The other man's touch was instantly consuming, flaring every knot and ache inside his body, each one crying out to be soothed and touched and tenderly tended to, and Mickey just tried not to all out groan beneath the contact. The release Ian always seemed to give him each time he was here already felt incredible, and just like before, Mickey was already glad he'd decided to come. But then as the redhead pressed his thumb along the arch of the other man's foot, and curled his fingers around his ankle with the other, Mickey was suddenly caught off guard at the sound of Ian's voice addressing him again. 

“So, what's the occasion?” Ian asked suddenly, causing Mickey to crinkle he brow and look down at him with a cluelessly perplexed expression, honestly unsure why the other man was suddenly trying to talk to him.

“Huh?” he grunted in return, blue eyes tracing over his face in question. 

The redhead met his eyes again for just a second, before focusing them back downward, giving the first foot a final rub, then applied more oil to his hands and began working on the other. His face remained neutral and professional as he smiled once more. 

“The occasion for the massage,” Ian clarified, tightening his grasp around the heel of his foot, then tilted his head some, “Not that you've come in very many times yet, but I kinda thought you'd already become predictable,” he quipped lightly, “Didn't think I'd see you again until the end of the week,” he said. Mickey fought down a small smirk, pushed out a scoff and arched a single eyebrow in return. 

“Show's what you fuckin' know, man,” said Mickey, to which Ian just chuckled as his hands grasped higher, gliding over ankles and shins, then kneading into his knees. 

“I guess I was wrong to assume,” observed Ian, causing Mickey scoff again and give single nod.

“Clearly,” agreed Mickey. 

The redhead shot his eyes another friendly glance and pressed his lips together, still not seeming at all bothered by Mickey's typical attitude and honestly found it quite nice that Ian didn't appear soft or easily offended, that he could banter back with him. He let a small sigh pass through his lips as the other man's grip pressed a bit more firmly, applying more oil to his hands, then grasping at his flesh again, working away the layers of tension and moved slowly up to his thighs. Then as awkward as Mickey still sort of felt having really any kind of conversation during a massage session, he also thought it might be a good distraction for him as well, not wanting to be stuck concealing a rougely coursing blood flow, like he had before. So, this time, he took the opportunity, trying to keep his voice leveled as Ian's hands kneaded further into his flesh. 

“I uh, actually was fuckin' here on Friday though,” revealed Mickey, earning him a crease of the other man's brow and another small flash of a glance, connecting their gaze for just a second, “But your big, red ass was apparently already fuckin' gone,” he explained, then chewed his lip hesitantly and shrugged a single shoulder, “So that's why I'm fuckin' here now,” Mickey added a bit more lowly.

Mickey kept his eyes on Ian, who appeared like he hadn't been expecting to hear that and stayed quiet for a short moment, like he knew what Mickey was talking about, but was perhaps a little unsure of how to respond. Though he wasn't silent long and creased his brow just slightly before it smoothed back out some. 

“Oh,” replied Ian, “Yeah, sorry about that,” he said, then pressed his lips back together with a slight tilt of his head, “Had kinda like a family emergency I had to deal with,” Ian explained slowly, almost like it made him uncomfortable to talk about it, “Couldn't really avoid that kinda shit, ya know?” he said.

Mickey stayed watching him still, reading over his face as he considered his words, and even though Mickey typically wouldn't ask, because he typically never gave a shit, something about it having to do with Ian and his personal life, honestly did make him a little curious about it. 

“Everything okay?” Mickey queried quietly, his tone laced with the slightest hint of shyness, knowing that such a simple question was still very personal, even if he was genuinely interested in the answer. Ian stayed quiet again, hesitating some for another short moment before he spoke again. 

“Yeah,” Ian replied slowly, like it wasn't the full truth, but he also didn't want to open that particular door, an expression that Mickey himself knew quite well, then gave a small shrug, “Well, it's as okay as it ever could be, I guess,” he said, their eyes glancing together again.

Then the redhead dropped his gaze once more as his thumbs continued to rub, hard round circles into the flesh of the other man's thighs, pushing a deep, chesty exhale through Mickey's lips as his own eyes fluttered closed. Ian's grip stayed strong, and his fingertips stayed firm as they pressed and rubbed and caressed over smooth, pale skin, just before they disappeared and Mickey felt the faintest dribbling of more oil being applied to his stomach. Then the sensation of thick, wide hands returned to his body, slowly, deeply tenderizing the muscles beneath them. It felt fucking amazing. 

The room fell fairly silent for a few moments, save for the soft slick of oily flesh and the deep, low breaths and exhales that escaped Mickey's throat. Mickey had to bite down to stop moans and swallow down pleasured groans the longer the other man gripped and grasped and smoothed his hands back over him, rising up further to caress the muscles in his chest. His brow creased deeply as his eyes stayed closed, just before he felt Ian's hands move up to his shoulders and the tops of his arms, having stepped further up the table to stand just above his head and his voice suddenly spoke once more. 

“Were you still seen on Friday?” Ian asked, causing the man beneath him to crinkle his brow in a slightly confused way, and cracked his eyes just a sliver to peek at him with question. The redhead caught his gaze, smiled lightly and offered a very innocent shrug in explanation, “Just wondering if I have any competition,” he said. Mickey just scoffed once more and closed his eyes again.

“Don't think you could even fuckin' call it that,” replied Mickey, the disdain and disapproval of his last experience thick and clear within his tone, then gave his head a shake at the memory, “Woulda been way fuckin' better off if I'd have just fuckin' left when that bitch out front told me you weren't workin',” he said, “Woulda saved me a lotta fuckin’ trouble,” he added with disgusted grumble in his voice, to which Ian split a smirk and arched a curious eyebrow. 

“Who did you end up seeing?” queried Ian, causing Mickey to screw up his face a bit, in no mood to try and remember the girl. 

“Carrie? Katelyn? I don't fuckin' remember, man,” he replied with disinterest, still keeping his eyes closed as he tried to focus on and enjoy the other man's indescribable touch, but he couldn't help but shift his focus back to Ian's voice each time he spoke to him again. 

“Karen,” Ian corrected with a laugh as his hands clasped into his shoulders with a rub, “She's not so bad,” he defended lightly, “I hear she does pretty good work,” added Ian, “Gets lots of good reviews,” he said, but Mickey just frowned. 

“She'd probably get even better fuckin' reviews if the bitch just kept her hands where's she's fuckin' told to,” he informed, though Ian's expression still didn't fade. 

“Well, if she wasn't good with them, she wouldn't be working here,” noted Ian, earning him a very confused raise of Mickey's eyebrow as he opened his eyes to peek at him again. 

“You seem to fuckin’ like her enough,” Mickey pointed out, trying not to feel just the slightest bit jealous at the notion, knowing he had no right to be, but it still annoyed him nonetheless. The redhead chuckled again at that, then raised an informative eyebrow of his own as his head tilted back to the side. 

“She's my brother's girlfriend. Known her a long time,” Ian revealed suddenly, which surprised Mickey, but only caused him to keep his brow raised even more firmly. 

“Does your brother fuckin' know that she offers extras?” Mickey pressed rather boldly, but the redhead just held an easy smile as he offered another very casual shrug. 

“They have an understanding,” Ian replied simply, “Seems to work for them,” he said. 

Mickey said nothing, not knowing what to say to that, and just stayed quiet again, his sight suddenly distracted by the view that he hadn't fully realized he had from this angle. With Ian standing up above his head with his hands on his shoulders, Mickey was able to admire everything from Ian's hips that flowed up to his chest, including his arms as they flexed atop the grip of his palms and the smooth, freckled skin of his face as it peered down in study as he worked. He swallowed, not wanting to stare, but once again he was still unable to look away, until Ian's eyes caught him gazing and he let his lids close again. 

Fuck, it'd suddenly become hard to concentrate, even more so than before, still seeing the tall, strong form of the other man's body leaning over him from behind his closed eyes. Now it was all Mickey could picture as he laid there, still letting himself enjoy the sensation of Ian's grip firmly pressing over his biceps beneath a velvety, smooth slick of cool, tingly oil for a few more minutes, and imagining how good he looked standing just above him. Then he was suddenly pulled from his thoughts as Ian's hands paused and he felt a single finger give his arm a tap, causing his eyes to pop back open and he just hoped that he didn't appear guilty from his thoughts. 

“Would you like to roll over for me now?” requested Ian, to which Mickey avoided his gaze again as he did just that, now resituating himself along his stomach atop the table and wedged his face inside the facial opening, silently more excited for this portion of the man's services, the part he'd been waiting for most. But then as the redhead's hands returned to him, rubbing his palms deeply into his calves and Mickey started to melt away again, Ian spoke to him once more. 

“So, I take it you didn't enjoy her services?” Ian queried, crinkling the other man's brow all over again. 

“Who?” Mickey queried back, earning him another chuckle from Ian as he rubbed. 

“Karen,” reminded Ian, “You didn't like her,” he rephrased as his thumbs twisted tenderly into the backs of the other man's knees, causing him to swallow another small, pleasurable groan as Mickey tried to focus back on his words, “Strange,” he noted, “Most people do,” he said, his tone peculiar, like he was carefully searching for something more, but he elaborated no further. Though Mickey didn't really think on it too much before he answered.

“The fuck is there to like?” asked Mickey as he screwed up his face beneath the massage table, “That bitch is way too fuckin' pushy for her own fuckin' good, and she's got hands like a goddamn rat,” he insisted, remembering how thin, small and uncomfortable the woman's hands had felt against him, then easily pushed it away just as quickly as he felt Ian's stronger, wider grip shift a little further up his legs. Mickey sighed beneath the touch and relaxed as the redhead's fingers gently, yet firmly went to work untangling the tension in the backs of his thighs and exhaled with the smallest groan. 

“Not exactly what I'm fuckin' lookin' for,” breathed Mickey. 

Then his skin suddenly tingled, speckled, radiated a simmering wave of goosebumps up across his body just as he felt the hot, full grasp around the tops of his thighs, just under his ass and he heard Ian's voice again. 

“What is it that you're looking for?” asked Ian, his tone deep, but low. 

All Mickey could do was swallow at first, not sure exactly what he meant or how to reply, the question silencing him for a moment and clogging his throat with nerves. It wasn't often that Mickey was put at a loss for words, but he definitely was now, having absolutely no idea how to answer such a thing, and the firm strong hands still rubbing deep into his flesh wasn't helping him any. His mind suddenly shot off in ten different directions, instantly having an entire slew of tantalizingly vivid ideas fill his brain on what he could think to do with the other man, which in turn made a thick hard swell begin flooding down between his legs. Mickey's hands curled into fists from his arms that hung loosely at his sides, trying to regain his forgotten strength and keep control of his body, exhaling again as he pushed down another groan. 

“Just somethin' fuckin' different,” he said. 

Ian said nothing more in return after that and Mickey was thankful, finding it nearly impossible to focus much further on any kind of conversation now anyway, most especially because he was now trying to keep an arising erection concealed within his towel on top of everything else. He was almost kind of embarrassed that the redhead always seemed to have this effect on him, but still just fucking glad that he didn't have to explain himself for it either, pushing away the lingering nags of unwanted shame. Mickey was going to let himself enjoy this. 

He bit down on his lip, trying not to let his muscles tense as he fought off a shudder from the sensation of Ian's grip rubbing over the very tops of his thighs, daringly close to his ass and refused to give into his urge to direct the man to move his palms up just a little higher. But Mickey wasn’t sure he could form words if he wanted to at the moment, biting his lip a little harder as he refused to fucking moan, with his eyes clamped shut tight. The redhead's hands suddenly seemed to move a little slower, more tenderly, tentatively as his thumbs pressed a little firmer into the inside of his thighs, causing Mickey to push a small breath through his teeth, the intensity of Ian's touch growing much too quickly. Then just before Mickey thought his throat may break and betray him, and release some of the small, groany noises that he'd been desperately holding back, Ian's hands disappeared from his legs, then reappeared on his lower back, smoothing and massaging fresh oil into a new area of skin. But still, Mickey sighed slowly, shamelessly letting himself melt back into the other man's touch. 

This was something that Mickey was quickly growing to love about his sessions with Ian, the way he was able to let himself relax that seemed so simple, but in a way he was unable to do so with most anything else or with any other person no matter how simplistic it seemed. He just loved being able to let everything else go, even if for just a short while, to let himself be vulnerable, something he'd never before enjoyed doing. But being vulnerable with Ian felt different, felt good, and at times it almost felt addicting, helping him cope in a way that nothing else could. And it was definitely turning out to always be worth the trip, no matter the reason he was here. 

Ian's fingertips slowly traced the curve of Mickey's lower back and smoothed across the cut of his hips, then pressed the pads of both thumbs into the skin of his tailbone, slowly kneading them downward. He was tentative, but intentional in his movements, remembering this was a particularly difficult area for Mickey that was always tender and sore, and always gave him problems, because it was always fucking painful. The dark haired man curled his hands back into fists as he let slip small breathy, groany grunts from all the knots within his muscles flaring with every rub and prod. Then Ian's thumbs met the same painful spot he had before and Mickey bit down sharply into his lip, covering a wince and stiffening atop a flinch. The redhead's hands paused at his sounds and sudden motion just like before as well, but didn't move away. 

“There?” Ian asked quietly, to which his client exhaled a small, pained breath and gave a single nod. 

“Yeah,” he confirmed, “There,” Mickey mirrored just as quietly.

Mickey absolutely hated that one tiny, single spot could possibly cause him so much aggravating pain. But he'd stayed honest, hoping his honesty would help Ian to work on him more effectively and perhaps get rid of the unfortunate, fiery flare at the base of his spine. He didn’t really think anything could make it any worse than it already was anyway. 

But then as Ian pressed again ever so slightly, gently rubbing small, slow circles into the center of the sore spot, it began to softly throb in a painfully soothing way. Mickey let another quick, harsh breath push through his lips as his fists curled a little further and his eyes pressed shut more tightly, but still let the man continue his motions feeling the tension already beginning to disperse from the unfortunate pressure point and fade away through his skin. It was then that he could no longer stop all the small chesty, breathy sounds that pushed their way up his throat, no longer wanting to hold them in anyway. This man's calming, healing touch just felt too damn good. 

Ian centralized his focus on the one area for a while, determined to relieve at least some of Mickey's pain there, then gradually moved his palms apart, grasping his hands more deeply into the outer parts of his hips. The entire lower space of his body was so sensitive and tender, like all his stress and tension had built up here the most, but Ian still took his time, working his fingers through tangled, knotted tissue and smoothing it back out. He fought off flutters, shudders and tenses as he let himself relax fully, as his breath stayed heavy and he quietly savored every touch. There was nothing else like it. 

Then slowly, Ian's hands began to travel further up his back with the pads of his thumbs tracing firmly along his spine, all the while Mickey whispered out a soft, quiet melody of moany breathy noises from the contact. As Mickey laid there quietly enjoying and embracing every little sensation, he also tried to lay still, not wanting to reveal how hard and full his cock was beneath his body, but at the moment didn't are about it nearly as much as he should have, silently unashamed of his own hidden secret. And he moaned a little louder, more deeply as he felt the redhead's fingertips press themselves into the tender meaty muscles tucked away beneath his shoulder blades. Then he could have sworn that he heard Ian split a smirk at his reaction as he suddenly spoke again. 

“Feel good?” queried Ian, pushing his fingers back down into the painfully bundled little section of muscles and nerves, then rubbed into them more gently, slowly smoothing out the knots, causing Mickey to push out another groan. 

“Fuck,” Mickey breathed out in a bite, “Yes,” he exhaled with the slightest pant, “That feels fuckin' great,” Mickey praised lowly, quietly, currently far too unwound and unhinged from his seams to care at all about how he sounded. Under Ian's touch like this, he could tell no fucking lies, no matter how ashamed he may feel for his words later. It almost felt euphoric, and it was just hard not to lose control completely. 

It then that Mickey seemed to lose track of time, having no care to how much he had left or how long he'd been there, simply hoping that it never had to end, wanting to melt into an oblivion within Ian's grasp for as long as the man wanted him to be there. All the harsh, hard lumpy knots he'd had trapped within his flesh were patiently and thoroughly worked out by the man leaned over him, hands still slick with frosty, tingly liquid, almost making Mickey feel as though perhaps Ian hadn't wanted to rush things either. Then when Ian's grasp turned a bit more lingering and gentle, Mickey could feel the heat of his pulse radiating through his pores, mixing with the cool, silky sheen of the massage oil and all he could do was take a few slow, heavy breaths before the other man's hands finally disappeared. 

“Looks like we may have to wrap things up here,” announced Ian, to which Mickey groaned in return in much the same way he always does at the end of a session, “Otherwise I won't have enough time to straighten up before my next appointment walks in,” he said. Mickey groaned again, enjoying the sore, exhausted afterglow that he was slowly starting to love, then propped his upper body onto his elbows and turned his face to look at his masseuse. 

“Thought you said you had a couple fuckin' hours,” Mickey wondered, arching a sharp eyebrow and splitting the smallest smirk. Ian pressed his smiling lips together a little tighter, now seemingly avoiding shooting a glance toward the clock on the wall and gave a single nod. 

“I did say that,” affirmed Ian, offering nothing else in return. 

Mickey crinkled his brow with confusion, then peered across the room toward the clock above the door himself, seeing that he'd been here for twice as long as he thought he had. His face snapped back toward the redhead who appeared to still have a rather friendly expression, but was also still quiet.

“It's been two fuckin' hours?” Mickey queried with surprise, looking at the redheaded man beside him like that didn't make any sense. Ian met his gaze, grinned a little wider as he flashed his eyes toward the clock, then squinted one as he twisted his face a bit to the contrary.

“Not quite,” defended Ian, then gave a teetering gesture with his palm, “About an hour forty five,” he said, like it was no big deal, but Mickey still narrowed his eyes. 

“Why?” pressed Mickey, “Our deal was only for one fuckin' hour,” he reminded, but Ian didn't appear phased by Mickey's underlining accusations, merely holding the same easy grin, tucking his hands behind his back and shrugging his shoulders. 

“I really don't mind,” Ian insisted, “Had some time to kill anyway,” he said. Mickey eyed him for a moment, unsure of the man's intentions, but didn't get a chance to comment any further as Ian pointed back toward the corner, “You can get dressed now if you'd like?” he offered with the same grin, then capped the little blue bottle of oil and turned away to replace it inside his cabinet drawer.

Mickey watched him for a second in perplexed silence, chewing his lip as he looked, before finally he lifted himself from the table and made a few quick steps toward the divider and disappeared behind it. He quickly dressed, slipping on his pants and shoes, buttoning his shirt, then tossing his towel across from him into the hamper, all while silently willing down the remains of an erection and trying not to think too deeply on what the other man had said or done and wondered what ulterior motives he might have. 

It wasn't often that Mickey accepted work for free, and now certainly didn't feel like the time to do it, even if Ian did say that he really didn't mind. Something just didn't feel right about it, though Mickey couldn't put his finger on what. So before he even stepped back out, he'd already decided what he was going to do, not wanting Ian to get the wrong idea and think that he's trying to take advantage of him. That's not how Mickey did things. And as he straightened his clothes and took a small breath, he stepped back out into the open space of the room, then immediately reached for his wallet to fish out another sixty dollars just as Ian turned around and saw him. 

“Oh no, no. Really, it's fine,” Ian began, waving his money away, but the dark haired just shook his head and held the bills out anyway.

“I insist,” Mickey replied firmly, refusing to take anything short of acceptance as an answer. Ian exhaled through his nose, pressed his lips back together and gave a slow nod as he took the money from Mickey's hand, then met his eyes with a pause as Mickey tilted his head and looked right back.

“You shouldn't fuckin' work for free, man,” he said. 

Their eyes connected again and their fingers touched while exchanging the cash between them and another soft smile spread across Ian's face as Mickey hesitantly curled his tongue behind his lip. Then Ian's hand closed around the bills with a papery crinkle, and seemed to hesitate a little himself, before he turned toward the narrow, little shelf beside his cabinet and snatched a tiny, rectangular card off from atop it. He then turned back to face Mickey, briefly flipping the card over between his fingers before he finally offered it over. 

“I thought this might be good for you to have if you ever need it,” said Ian, then tipped his chin down toward it, “Might save you some trouble in the future, so you don't ever have a repeat of Friday,” he grinned kindly, appearing confident in his gesture, but still perhaps a tad bit nervous. 

Mickey dropped his eyes to the little red piece of paper, seeing that it was a business card for the Red Swan that had the phone number which appeared to reach the receptionist at the front desk. But written in beside it in black pen was Ian's name and the quick, sharp scribble of his personal cellphone number, making the dark haired man swallow when he saw it. His gaze flashed back up to see Ian still watching him, studying him, perhaps waiting to see how he was going to react to it. But again, Mickey just stayed quiet, not sure how to react at all. Though Ian still didn't appear bothered by his silence and instead simply stayed very smooth and professional. 

“Whenever you feel the urge to come back, just shoot me a text,” he advised easily, “Then we can set up an appointment,” said Ian, then arched a single eyebrow, “So you don't end up wasting any time again,” he smirked lightly. 

Mickey chewed his lip with hesitation again, then gave a nod as he tucked the card inside his pocket. Then Ian still kept his eyes on him, lingering for a final, quiet moment, before he moved to cross the room, grasped the handle of the door and opened it for him with an upturned palm toward the hallway. 

“Until then, I hope our session today has helped you in some way,” said Ian with a smile, “You're welcome back any time,” he said. Mickey watched his gaze, thumbed his lip, then approached the door as well. 

“I'll let ya fuckin' know, man,” replied Mickey. 

Then as Mickey exited the building, climbed back into his truck and began to drive away, the pores of his skin still flared just slightly, but in a much different way they had before, all loose, relaxed and simply buzzing from the intense massage session he'd just endured. It was a feeling that kept him calm, kept his stress away and continued to relax him, at least for the time being. 

And Mickey couldn't help but feel a little excited again, knowing that he now had Ian's number in his pocket, that contacting the man was just a simple text away. But he also still wondered if Ian had actually meant anything more by giving it to him, something other than a professional use. Though he still had no way to be sure, Mickey was still pretty eager to find out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got an update for you!! :)  
> Sorry for the wait! I've been bouncing around and working several things at once, but I have something for you now! :D  
> It's a little short, but not too bad I hope.  
> I am also still editing, as always, so please bear with me there. :)  
> I do hope this chapter doesn't bore you, because to be honest, I'm not very confident about it and actually rewrote it in it's entirety. So, this is the revised version of this chapter, and I'm just hoping you all will enjoy it.  
> If possible, I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thank you for reading! :D

That week was a slow one for Ian, slower than most weeks were anyway. Almost every morning he awoke alone inside his little one bedroom apartment, took a quick shower, made himself a cup of coffee and cooked a small breakfast while he dreaded having to go into work each afternoon. Though most days he enjoyed his job, liked helping people and hoped that his work with them made at least a small difference in their everyday lives, other days it was draining on him, knowing that he still had quite a long time before he could look into doing other things, that he still owed Vern quite a bit of money that he still had to repay. But Ian tried not to let himself think of that part too much, instead trying to remind himself that what he was doing was a good thing, a legitimate job that helped people heal from whatever pain they were plagued with. Though some days it was just difficult to keep that focus. 

Other mornings he awoke to find his younger brother asleep on his couch, having let himself in with his key sometime during the night and didn't mind brewing a little extra coffee and cooking a slightly larger breakfast to share with him. Carl didn't have a place of his own at the moment, no permanent place to rest his head and often moved back and forth between Ian's apartment and Debbie's, but rarely made any trips back to the old house to visit their older siblings. Though Ian didn't blame him, after the falling out they all had involving their mother, when Lip and Fiona refused to let her stay with them, pretty much having given up on the woman all together. And even though Ian understood their point of view as well and their reasons for refusing to help their mother anymore, he still didn't agree with them. Ian, Carl and Debbie just couldn't bring themselves to cut their mother off, no matter what she'd done to burn her bridges elsewhere. 

Today was one of these mornings, when Ian emerged from his shower, dressed in his bedroom, then crossed through the cramped little living room out front and made steps into the kitchen to start up a fresh pot of coffee, passing his deeply sleeping little brother as he did. As Carl remained lightly snoring just a few feet away, he poured water into his coffee maker, spooned some dark roasted grounds into the filter and switched it on to brew, then moved to search through his refrigerator for eggs to scramble for the two of them to eat. But when Ian had finished cooking, gathered his mug of morning brew and settled down to consume his breakfast, Carl still hadn't woken, so he decided to kick him in the foot and wake him himself instead. His younger brother stirred with a groan, slowly lifting his head with a tired and confused squint of his eyes. 

"What the fuck?" grumbled Carl with a yawn, to which the redhead simply continued chewing, then tipped his chin toward the untouched plate atop the coffee table beside them.

"Wake up and eat these fucking eggs," directed Ian as he swallowed, "They're probably cold by now, but I still don't wanna waste them," he said, then took another bite from his own plate. Carl groaned again as he reached to rub his eyes, then slowly sat up with another thick breathed yawn. 

"You got coffee?" queried Carl, earning him a simple nod and another chin tip.

"In the kicthen," Ian replied with a chew. 

The younger man returned his chin tip, sat up a little more, then turned to place his feet on the floor as he reached for his plate of eggs with one hand and ran the other down over his face. The redhead reached for his coffee cup atop the table and brought it to his lips to take a sip, then arched an eyebrow as he watched his brother begin to eat. 

"When the fuck did you get here anyway?" asked Ian. Carl poked a lump of eggs with his fork, then popped it into his mouth to chew as well. 

"Late," he replied through a full mouth, "After I helped Debbie get Monica settled over at her place again when she tried to leave and find Frank last night, but she didn't get far," said Carl, "I was gonna sleep over there, but Debs said she had it covered," he explained as he took another bite of eggs, "Dunno how fucking long that's gonna last though," he admitted, "Mom still looks like shit, and she's not exactly happy about being dragged back there again," he said, Ian slowly chewing as he listened, "Probably gonna head back over there later, make sure everything's still okay." Ian nodded in agreement, then took a final bite of eggs before setting his empty plate down in front of him.

He understood exactly what his brother was talking about, having witnessed just as many times as the rest of them their mother's withdrawals from her drug use, along with the inevitable relapses that always seemed to follow soon after, just when she was able to escape from their sights just long enough to indulge again. But she was getting weaker, frailer, more emaciated as time went on, from simply not taking care of herself, not eating or bathing either, simply not caring any more. 

It was painful to watch each and every time Ian saw her, each time he was forced to rescue her and time never made it any easier, most weeks it feeling even worse than every time before. His older siblings may have given up and found her to be a hopeless cause, but he and his younger siblings still held on, hoping she would eventually find her light somewhere within the darkness. The redhead rubbed his palms together as he swallowed in thought, then arched a single eyebrow.

"Want me to come with you?" Ian queried, "I could take off work if you need me to," he said, offering his help the way he always did, but Carl shook his head.

"No, I got it. She's not hard to catch," assured Carl, then creased his brow a bit, "Why the fuck aren't you at work right now anyway?" he wondered aloud as a single eyebrow raised in query, though the redhead just offered a brief head shake. 

"Don't work mornings anymore," Ian replied, "Not much money in it," he said, "Don't start until noon," said Ian, to which his brother chuckled just a bit. 

"Don't most old ladies wake up at like 5 a.m. though?" smirked Carl, but the redhead just flipped him off. 

"Old ladies aren't my only clientele," said Ian, "I get plenty of young ones too," he assured smugly, then split a smirk as he watched Carl's brow raise with a rather surprised hint of intrigue, "They're usually more disappointed that I don't offer happy endings though," he cracked, earning him a wide suggestive grin and a chuckle out of Carl in return. 

"Shit, I would," replied Carl, then dropped his expression for a second, "Well, not for the grannies though, just the babes," he added to clarify as his tone turned more serious. 

"Not much room to be too picky," Ian countered, "For you anyway," he added with a pointed tip of his brow. His younger brother offered him a middle finger of his own, but still chuckled again, then gave a shrug, just before reaching for Ian's coffee cup to take a sip, instantly earning him another kick to his leg. 

"Hey, make your own fucking coffee," Ian snapped lightly, then reached over to snatch the cup out of his hand. Carl creased his brow again, shot his brother a rather mild glare, but still let the cup go just the same. 

"Fine," said Carl, then moved to finally rise from the couch, setting his plate back down, "You make that shit too fucking sweet anyway," he said, but Ian only shrugged. 

"Some people like it sweet," he said. Carl grunted in response, then began walking into the kitchen to prepare his own cup of coffee. Ian took another sip from his brew and swallowed. 

"Hey, can I crash here this weekend?" Carl asked suddenly, then shot him a glance from over his shoulder as he stirred a bit of creamer into his cup, "Or are you planning to go out to the club and find some fairy to bring home?" he queried with a slight arch of his eyebrow, to which the redhead simply frowned. 

"You know if you weren't all the way over there, I'd kick you right in your ass," mentioned Ian, earning him a snort and another chuckle, "Don't really go out to the club much anymore anyway," he said, "Shit gets old pretty fucking fast," said Ian. Carl turned around with a fresh cup of coffee in hand, stirring it for a moment, before setting the spoon down atop the counter and raised his eyebrow again before raising it to his lips to sip. 

"So is that a yes?" asked Carl, causing Ian to think for a moment before shooting his brother another tip of his chin.

"Yeah, I guess so," Ian replied, "Unless something else comes up," he added. 

"Still gonna kick me out if you find a piece of ass, huh?" Carl teased, to which Ian just frowned again. 

"I meant mom, asshole," Ian corrected, "Might need to go track her down again if she leaves Debbie's, because you know it never lasts," he said, to which his younger brother pressed his lips together a bit, knowing how true the statement was and Ian exhaled heavily, "Just gotta wait and see," he said. Carl gave an understanding nod, agreeing with him, then raised his cup back to his lips and swallowed. Ian finished off his cup, then moved to rise as well. 

"Gotta get ready for work," he said, then sighed with a brow rub, "Just one more fucking day until I get a break," Ian breathed with a hint of disdain, honestly looking forward to hopefully relaxing during the weekend and began walking back out to the kitchen to place his used dishes in the sink. 

"You know it's Friday, right?" reminded Carl, stopping his brother in his tracks at the realization.

"Oh," said Ian, "It is, isn't it?" he agreed. 

His mood almost instantly brightened just a bit, knowing which one of his clients typically came to see him at the end of each week, and he was suddenly a little excited to go into work today, much more so than he usually was. He couldn't help but smile just a bit at the thought of the dark haired, blue eyed man that had suddenly invaded his mind, but hardened it and tried to look more nonchalant when he saw his brother notice his expression with a rather peculiar raise of his brow. 

"The fuck was that look about?" queried Carl, but Ian only stuck his chin up at him.

"None of your fucking business, that's what," Ian replied, then gave a point back out to his living room table, "And go eat those fucking eggs or I'm never feeding you shit ever again," he advised bluntly, just before turning away and walking back toward his bedroom to pick out different clothes to wear, keeping Mickey in the back of his mind all the while, and tried to figure out what he'd look best in.

After he sorted through three different outfits, Ian finally settled on a simple pair of gray sweatpants and a dark, green beater, now unable to rid the smile from his face as he quickly swallowed down his morning medication, stepped out from his apartment and started down the street toward the Red Swan. He lived only a few blocks away, making the walk to work rather short, suddenly a little more eager to arrive after his brother reminded him of the day, not caring too much at all about arriving a little earlier than normal. But Ian knew that his excitement to see his new favorite client would be dulled by each and every other client he'd haveto see before him, because ever since meeting Mickey, that just seemed to be the way it was.

Quite honestly, Ian thought about Mickey much more than he probably should have and it seemed to distract him quite a bit throughout each day, so much so that it seemed to have become a bit of a struggle for Ian to put his mind on much of anything else even while he's working. But he didn't want it to impact his professional life, as difficult as that was becoming, and also took every opportunity he had to try and set his mind elsewhere, focusing solely on each current client in front of him and pushed the lingering thoughts he had for the other man deep away. Though the redhead would be lying if he'd said he'd been successful in this, especially since Mickey's last visit to the Swan.

It'd taken a lot of fucking courage for Ian to offer the man his personal phone number, and at the time, he'd almost been sure that Mickey had been going to give it right back to him, that he'd read his signals wrong and that he wasn't as interested in Ian as the redhead had hoped he'd be. But then after the dark haired man had taken it, accepted it and slipped it inside his pocket, Ian then wondered if he hadn't been forward enough and Mickey had probably just assumed it'd been given to him for professional purposes, but nothing more. And ever since, Ian had found himself stuck in a strange limbo of sorts, not knowing where anything stood between them at all, especially because it was now Friday and he still hadn't heard from Mickey at all.

That had become an even worse distraction for Ian as he tried to focus on kneading knots from muscles and loosening hard, straining tensions from the fleshy tissue of other patients. All the while he silently began to wonder if he'd ever hear from the man again at all, or if he had somehow spoiled the delicate understanding he'd begun to establish with Mickey. All he could seem to do since, was hope that he hadn't. 

At one point, a sudden subtle buzzing from his pocket made him jump a bit, just as he was seeing one of his clients out of his room. Ian bit his lip and fought down a smile, then just tried not to all but rush the frail older man he'd been working on out of his door and back down the hall, just so he could turn away, reach for his phone and eagerly fish it out from his pocket to check. But when he did, Ian only frowned, seeing a quick, but simple text from Carl instead, telling him of the current disorganized state of their mother whom they still had captive at their sister's apartment. 

The redhead asked if they needed any help, but was told not to worry, though he knew like fuck he wouldn't be able to do any such thing of the sort. So Ian just told Carl to simply keep him posted and let him know if their mother's condition was getting any worse, to which his brother agreed, and continued to shoot him more occasional text messages over the next several hours doing just that. As much as the situation with Monica never failed to stress and frustrate him more often than not, Ian still just couldn't bring himself to ignore the woman either. He still loved his mother, despite her faults. 

Then by early evening, Ian opted to take the sole and single smoke break he was allowed to have while on the clock, exiting his massage room, making his way down the main hall, into a much more narrow passage way, then crept quietly past Vern's office and out the alleyway door. He closed as quietly behind him as he could, not wanting to attract the unwanted attention of his boss just a few steps away inside, then exhaled rather heavily and rubbed an exacerbated palm down his face. Ian rubbed his brow as well, just before he pulled his cigarette pack out from his pants pocket and placed one between his lips, then began patting over his pockets in search of a lighter. When realizing he must have forgot it, he leaned against the brick of the building and tipped his head back with an irritated groan as he let his eyes close for a second, just before he was startled by a sudden voice beside him. 

"You need a light?"

Ian turned his face and met Karen's eyes, seeing her leaned up against the very same brick just a few feet away with a smile on her lips and her own cigarette slowly burning between her fingers. The redhead straightened up a bit and tried not to look as stressed as he felt. 

"Shit," he said, "I didn't see you there," replied Ian. The blonde young woman sucked in a drag of smoke as she held her smile and muffled a small laugh behind her lips, then slipped two fingers inside her cleavage to grasp her lighter, then offered it over. 

"Didn't mean to scare you," smiled Karen, watching as the redhead lit his cigarette and handed her lighter back to her. 

"No, you didn't. My mind was just somewhere else," assured Ian, not really wanting to go into any more detail then that, then managed a small appreciative smile, "Thanks," he added. 

He tipped his chin toward the woman who then smiled again herself and tucked her lighter back inside her shirt. The redhead sucked in a drag as well and exhaled as he leaned back into the brick. The two stood in silence for a short moment, each savoring the moment they have to take break, just before Karen turned her gaze back on Ian spoke to him again.

"What's on your mind?" she asked, which merely crinkled the redhead's brow in return.

"What do you mean?" Ian queried back, as the woman beside side blew a puff of smoke out into the air in front of her. 

"You said it was somewhere else," reminded Karen with the same easy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, then combed her fingers along her scalp, pushing long, blonde locks out of her face to be blown back by the wind, "So, where was it?" she asked.

The redhead met her eyes, pausing in thought and hesitated for a moment. Even though Karen was mostly just a coworker, a colleague, someone who understood what it was like working a job in such a place that they did, a business that only seemed legitimate to those on the outside who never seemed to look too closely, she was also his older brother's long time girlfriend. She was a person he had known for years, and over time she had sort of even become a friend to Ian, something he'd never had too many of. 

They talked a bit when they had the chance, though never usually about many personal matters, more like polite small talk, along with occasionally sharing stories of their clients, complaining about the pushiness of their boss, and mostly just kept the conversation between them fairly superficial in nature. And even though Ian was pretty certain that she already knew the details of his mother's current condition, more than likely learned from the painfully biased and outdated opinions of his brother, he still wasn't too keen on sharing or discussing it now, at least not with Karen. 

Though Ian also knew just how stubborn the woman often was, as friendly and innocent as her intentions may be, and she likely wouldn't let him shrug off her query without some sort of response, even a simple one. He'd have to tell her something to get her off his back, or even worse, to avoid Karen assuming that something was wrong with him, that his own condition was perhaps acting up and telling his older brother that she thinks Ian was off of his meds. And the very last thing he wanted to do was deal with either of his older siblings, under the impression that he was on the verge of a manic breakdown. So, Ian opted to share with her something else that had been on his mind instead, a subject that seemed much more mild than his deranged, withdrawling mother, and flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette, then pulled another drag.

"Just kinda wondering if a new client of mine is gonna come back in today," said Ian, blowing his smoke out above his head, "Still got a couple more hours before I find out though," he said. Karen continued to smoke her own cigarette as well, exhaling another cloud that was pushed away by the breeze and arched a single eyebrow. 

"They didn't book an appointment?" asked Karen, and Ian couldn't seem to fight down just the smallest hint of a smile on his lips as he thought about a particular dark haired, blue eyed man that he still hoped so very much he'd get a chance to see again, offering a simple shake of his head. 

"He never does," replied Ian, "Usually comes in on the same day, around the same time though," he said, to which his words seemed to brighten the woman's gaze just a bit, clearly intrigued and curious about the redhead's response and smiled a little wider. 

"He?" repeated Karen, "You been working on some impotent new geezer?" she queried with a giggle, to which Ian chuckled a bit, but shook his head.

"No," said Ian as he inhaled another puff of smoke, "He looks like he's around my age actually," he informed, then smirked a bit, "And I don't think he's impotent either," he said. 

"You think or you know?" Karen asked further, then arched another smug eyebrow at the redhead beside her, "Back to offering extras maybe?" she smiled, instantly earning her a rather firm frown in return. 

"Fuck no," assured Ian, "You know I don't do that shit anymore and I never fucking will again," he insisted, and Karen didn't push it, holding her smile a bit, but looking away to smoke her cigarette as Ian exhaled from his own, "Just don't really get that vibe from him, that's all," he said.

"What kind of vibe do you get then?" Karen queried. 

Ian looked at her again, not really knowing what to say, because honestly, he really wasn't sure just yet what kind of vibe Mickey gave him each time he came in, where exactly the man's head was at, still being quite the enigma to Ian in most every sense of the word. Then he suddenly remembered what his client had told him at the beginning of the week, informing him of how he'd spent his last visit at the Red Swan when Ian hadn't been there, and arched an eyebrow of his own right back at her. 

"Why don't you tell me?" offered Ian with the same smug and curious expression, "Apparently you didn't leave the best impression on him," he chuckled, recalling how Mickey had described Karen's hands feeling like that of a rat, and watched as the blonde woman beside him suddenly appeared extremely lost and confused. 

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Karen asked with a perplexed scrunch of her face, only causing Ian to chuckle even more.

"You didn't see a new client last Friday night?" Ian queried as the young woman combed her fingers through her hair once more. 

"I see new clients every night," Karen informed simply, then creased her brow a bit, "What's he look like?" she asked. The redhead smiled again as he looked away, fondly imagining the other man's handsome, yet rugged appearance and licked his lips before he spoke. 

"Black hair that's shorter on the sides and combed back on top," began Ian, "Full lips, perfect fucking teeth," he continued, then smiled a little wider, hoping that a bright pink blush wasn't suddenly filling his face, "And bright blue eyes," he said. An expression of realization suddenly split across Karen's face, and she laughed as she nodded. 

"Oh yeah," replied Karen, "The mystery man with a stick up his ass," she said with another giggle, "I remember him," she smirked. 

"What?" Ian chuckled, to which Karen held her smile and nodded again. 

"The mystery man," she repeated, "Wouldn't fucking tell me his name," explained Karen, "He just seemed kinda stiff, quiet and uncomfortable the whole time," she continued, "Tried to work my charm on him, but he didn't budge," she said, "Left without payment," Karen added, causing the redhead to raise his eyebrows with surprise. 

"He didn't pay you?" Ian replied, to which Karen shook her head, "Did you tell Vern about that?" he asked, causing the woman to scoff and wave his words off with her hand. 

"Fuck Vern," said Karen, laughing again, not seeming even the slightest bit bothered by her lack of payment, "Not a big deal," she assured, "He wasn't in my room for more than ten fucking minutes anyway," Karen revealed, then she creased her brow once more and let slip another giggle as she met Ian's eyes, "Hell, maybe he really is impotent," she cracked. Ian pressed his lips together into a very flat expression, looking away to pull another drag, just before the next thing that Karen said made his face snap back over to her, "Or gay," she added simply as she met his eyes again, "But if that were the case, you'd already know by now, right?" 

Suddenly Ian hesitated again, falling quiet once more, ashing his cigarette and turning his eyes toward the ground, now nudging at a small peddle beside his shoe. The truth was that Ian didn't know, didn't even have the slightest hunch if Mickey was gay or not, assuming that if he was, maybe would have heard from him by now after giving the man his phone number just a few days before, but he still hadn't. The thought brought the redhead's insecurity back with a force, now feeling a little bummed all over again that his gesture had seemingly been shot down, and because of it, Mickey now might not show back up at all. 

He swallowed quietly, then brought his cigarette back to his lips to suck in another puff of smoke and exhaled slowly though his nose, still turning over the tiny stone on the concrete beneath his toe as he stayed quiet still. Karen watched him for a short moment as he did, just before another flash of realization spread across her face, raising her eyebrows and smirking at him again. 

"Oh," said Karen, "You don't know, do you?" she asked. The redhead frowned again, then split his face into a rather ridiculous expression. 

"How the fuck would I know that?" Ian shot back, "I don't offer extras and he hasn't asked for any," he explained, then dropped his eyes back to the ground with a single shouldered shrug, "Not exactly an appropriate question to ask a client either," he said. 

Karen smirked again at his words, knowing just as well as Ian did that the business they worked in wasn't always 'appropriate' in itself, but thankfully for the redhead she didn't feel the need to point that out to him right now. Instead she flicked the ash off the end of her cigarette, then brought it up to her lips to inhale with a shrug of her own. 

"Well, there's plenty of other ways of finding out without asking him," mentioned Karen, "He sure as fuck didn't seem interested in me," she exhaled with a small laugh, "I think that says a lot right there," she smirked. 

"Maybe you're just not his type?" Ian smirked right back, causing Karen to laugh even louder. 

"Oh bullshit," she scoffed as she brushed the long, blonde locks of hair back out of her face with her fingertips, "I'm everybody's type," Karen stated confidently, to which the redhead let slip a small laugh of his own, then shook his head a bit, "I'm just saying, of all the workers that he could make an appointment with, he picks you," she said, "The only male masseuse here," she added with a pointed brow, "Why else would he do that if not because he's gay?" shrugged Karen. Ian pressed his lips together once more, considering this, but still just wasn't entirely sure, nor was he ready to get his hopes up just yet. He pulled a drag, blew it out and looked away again. 

"I don't know, Karen," Ian replied slowly, his voice and face drenched with skepticism, "Might not be as simple as that," he said, "Maybe it's a coincidence and he just comes to me because I'm the only person in this place that does legitimate massage work?" Ian wondered instead, silently trying to convince himself in his mind that it could be true, not willing to let his thoughts stray too far otherwise. The blonde woman arched her eyebrow at him and pushed an amused huff through her nose, then looked away as well. 

"Whatever you say," Karen replied, "I guess you'll just have to take your time and feel him out then," she advised, then met his gaze as Ian turned his face back, bearing a rather peculiar expression at her choice of words and Karen giggled once again when she saw, "No pun intended," she said. Ian chuckled, tilted his head and gave a single nod of agreement.

"Yeah, I guess only time will tell," he said.

They stood beside each other in silence again for a moment, both leaned against the cold, rough brick of the building, quietly smoking their cigarettes as slowly as they could, neither seeming very eager to make their way back inside.

Ian still had a lot on his mind, even more now than before, his interest and wonder about his new client suddenly flooding his brain all over again. As happy as he would be to find out Mickey was gay, he wasn't sure there would be much he could do about it, not without possibly threatening the professional relationship they were only beginning to develop. Ian didn't want to cross any lines or over step boundaries, just like he wanted that of his own to be respected in return. And with that in mind, did the other man's sexual preference really matter much anyway? It's not like there was any rule against seeing a client outside of the business, or engaging in activities that strayed from his legitimate work, that of which was actually encouraged more often than not. But it had always felt that there was some kind of unspoken boundary there, something that shouldn't be pushed beyond professionalism between him and someone he was servicing, that it would definitely impact the business side of the exchange. Though Ian still couldn't help but wonder, couldn't help but think that maybe for the right person, he just might be willing to give it a try. 

The redhead sucked in another drag and blew it out through his nose, resisting the urge to drop his other hand to trace the outline of his cellphone within his pocket, still silently hoping that maybe he would hear from Mickey sometime soon, that he would contact him and inquire about another massage session, but resisted, feeling pathetic for even hoping so much. He would have to be patient and he would just have to wait, as much as it sucked doing right now the same as it'd sucked for him all week long. The redhead instead combed his fingertips back along his scalp and brought his cigarette back up to his lips again, trying to quietly clear his mind of the other man, along with everything else that still distracted his thoughts and poked at the back of his brain. He just needed to forget about it, for now at least. 

But then he noticed Karen turn her face back toward him, looking over his demeanor and seeming to hesitate, like she wanted to speak again, wanted to say something else that may be a little more touchy, a little more personal and Ian swallowed his nerves as he turned his own face and met her eyes again. She flicked her thumb over the filter between her fingers, then pressed her lips together before they parted, and in a very hesitate, yet gentle tone she began to speak once more. 

"You know, Lip's been asking about you," Karen began quietly, "Just wondering how you're doing, if everything's been okay," she elaborated, then pressed her lips together again, "I think he misses you," she said. 

Ian pushed a thick scoff through his nose at that, but said nothing, having nothing to say anyway. Karen looked at him expectantly, waiting for some kind of response, but the redhead offered none, having no interest in talking about his brother, but the woman still persisted. 

"Maybe you could swing by the house and see him sometime," offered Karen, "Or at least give him a call," she said, "I know he'd love to hear from you," assured Karen. The redhead simply frowned and fought off the urge to roll his eyes, putting his focus back on his cigarette and sucked in another drag. 

"I don't have anything to say to him," Ian informed with a smoky exhale, "Not that he's tried to get a hold of me lately anyway," he said. 

"That's because you never answer when he does," Karen replied, "He thinks you hate him, Ian," she said, "Your sister too," Karen continued, "You don't, do you?" she asked.

"I just have nothing to say," Ian repeated with insistence, "Doesn't fucking mean that I hate them," he said, really just wanting this conversation to be over, but Karen wouldn't seem to budge. 

"Well, he still thinks you do," she insisted as well, "So why don't you just call him and tell him that you don't?" directed Karen, her tone a little pushier than before. 

But Ian wasn't budging either, keeping his eyes turned away and falling silent once more, having no interest in doing anything of the sort. The blonde woman waited again, watching as the redhead smoked his cigarette, then tried again, her tone and voice falling a little lower and turning gentle once more. 

"I think you're being too hard on him. He just worries about you," said Karen, the words striking a bit of a nerve within the man standing beside her, who then turned his sights back on her with a glare. 

"Our mother's the one he should be worrying about," Ian countered harshly, "But he doesn't seem to give two flying fucks about that now, does he?" he spat, trying to control the anger he felt rising into his chest and held a hard frown as he ground his teeth within his mouth. Then it was Karen who hesitated, just before her voice fell just a little bit lower. 

"Ian, you know that's different," she said, but the redhead didn't buy that excuse for a second. 

"The fuck it is," Ian replied with another scoff, "Lip doesn't give a shit about anyone but himself," he stated with a deeper frown, "You should know that better than anyone," he said. Karen looked a little hurt by that comment, her face falling just a little bit, but she still tried, despite Ian not willing to bend. 

"I know that he's still your brother and he loves you," Karen pressed with surety, "Debbie and Carl too," she said, "He just wants to know that you're all okay." Ian's mouth twisted into a bitter scowl as he turned his face away and sucked on his cigarette. 

"Well, tell him not to fucking worry about it," said Ian. 

At that, Karen didn't press any further, clearly not wanting to anger or upset her colleague any more than she already had and seemed to let it go, turning her own face away and continuing to smoke her own cigarette as well. Ian's mood had been spoiled, not that it'd been in the best of states beforehand, but now it was even worse, irritated and annoyed that Karen had the audacity to bother him with talk of Lip, a subject that never failed to agitate him lately. His brother should already know why Ian wasn't speaking to him, why he was upset with him and sending Karen to question him about it only upset him more. This was between them, and it wasn't any of Karen's business anyway. Ian pulled a final puff of smoke from his cigarette, then exhaled and flicked his filter down to the ground.

"I should probably head back in," Ian informed, "Gotta straighten shit up and sterilize my table before another appointment walks in," he said. The blonde woman beside him nodded in agreement and dropped the butt of her cigarette down onto the concrete as well. 

"Me too," replied Karen, "Better get back in there before Vern starts his bitching," she said. But just then the alley door beside them swung open and the thin, smug face of their boss came peeking through it's opening, causing Ian to sigh heavily at his inexplicable timing. 

"Well, well," began Vern as his pink, wrinkled lips spread into a grin, "I thought I heard you ladies chit chatting back here," he said, ignoring the frown that appeared on the redhead's face at his words, "Makes me wonder how in the hell either of you expect to make any money if you're spending all your time gossiping out here in the alley?" the old man wondered with a raise of his eyebrows. 

At that Ian did roll his eyes, Vern's insufferable, superior attitude annoying him even more than Karen's talk of his brother. But the blonde woman at his side simply took a step forward and replied for the both of them. 

"We were just taking a smoke break," explained Karen, "But we just finished, so we're headed back to our rooms now," she said. The flamboyant old man moved his eyes between them, the same smug grin still stuck to his frail bony face and he pursed his lips at her reply. 

"Well, good," said Vern, "Converse on your own fucking time, not mine," he ordered bluntly, "Time is money, honey," he said, "And you both still owe me too fucking much to waste any of it," reminded Vern, then glanced rather pointedly back over at Ian, "Especially you, sweet cheeks," he smirked. 

The redhead said nothing, but still offered a slow, stiff understanding nod, biting his tongue as he did, knowing that arguing with the old man was beyond pointless and combed his fingertips back through his hair as he exhaled frustratingly through his nose. Vern licked his lips, opened the door a bit wider, then clapped his hands at them rather insistently as he gave his head a flick. 

"Let's go, hop to!" chanted Vern, urging them back inside the building, "Back to work girls," he directed, "Collections at the end of the day," he informed, "Don't want either of ya turning in light stacks tonight, so go on and wrangle up some clients," said Vern, "No collections, no pay day," he reminded. Ian pushed another irritated huff through his nose and rubbed a palm over his face, just as Karen stepped past him to enter the building first and he slowly followed after. 

When Vern returned to his office, Ian and Karen both made their way back to their seperate rooms, and the redhead just tried not let the ever-building stress of his job and his personal life loom too darkly within his mind. Things were difficult for him lately, very difficult and there were very few things that seemed to lighten his mood, no matter how desperately hard he always tried to find something that would. 

Then as he stepped back inside his work space and began to tidy it up for his next appointment, he felt his cellphone vibrate inside his pocket and he groaned, just knowing that it would be Carl with yet another unfortunate update about their mother. 

But when he pulled his phone from his pants with a crease in his brow and peered down at the screen, Ian's face suddenly smoothed back out, his heart rose up into his throat with a heightened pounding pulse and he felt a happily nauseating flutter fill his chest with a speckling, airy tickle, unable to stop the surprised smile that almost instantly spread across his face at the message and he blinked with disbelief. 

'Hey, this is Mickey,' it read.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a new chapter for you already! :)  
> I was in a good groove, so I just went with it.  
> I'm still editing, as always, so please ignore any typos.  
> I don't know how much this will satisfy the cliffhanger from the last chapter, but I figured a new chapter would be positively received either way. At least I hope it is.  
> Back to Mickey's POV with this one, so I hope you all enjoy it!  
> I'd absolutely love to hear your thoughts! :)  
> Thank you for reading! :)

Ever since his last massage session with Ian on Monday evening, Mickey had been in a tremendously better mood than he had been in quite a long time, and it showed. His back didn't ache, his muscles didn't flare and his usual heated temper he'd bore in his day to day life had simmered back down lower than it normally was. He wasn't snapping on employees or cussing them out when they made mistakes, but instead he brushed them off and corrected them quite smoothly, not even being all that bothered when he had to take control and finish their tasks himself. The redhead's work had definitely been leaving a positive impression on him, that's for sure. 

Mickey hadn't even thought of his father getting released much at all the past several days, and when he did, he simply pushed the thought away as quick as it'd come, opting to worry about it later when the time got closer. Even though the man's release date was less than a month away now, he just couldn't bring himself to feel very bothered about it right now, not when he felt as good as he did about other things in his life. He'd even answered Iggy, finally, agreeing to pick up the tools and materials they needed, drive back out to the old house to help him fix up the damage his brother had caused and didn't give him too much shit for it either. 

He'd even taken some time off of work, since the foundation portion of the construction site was near completion, and left things in Patrick's hands for the time being, trusting the man to keep a close eye on things the way he always did. And as always, Patrick was more than happy to agree. Then before heading out to help Iggy, Mandy had called him and Mickey took the opportunity to apologize to her for their last interaction, his easy words and lightened tone taking the woman by quite the surprise, though she'd still accepted them all the same. But it surprised her even more when her brother had informed her of where he was going and why, almost shocked to hear that he was willing going back out to their childhood home, no matter the reason. Though she didn't question him much about it, Mandy did ask if she could come with, if she could help too, and although Mickey was hesitant to accept, he'd still agreed and picked her up on his way over South. 

The entire drive there Mandy was skeptical and curious, not quite understanding Mickey's change in mood, how calm he was, how relaxed he seemed, dispite where they would be going and how they'd be spending their time there. She'd tried to figure it out, tried to get him to talk, poking and prodding him with questions just a little bit. But Mickey revealed nothing, brushing her off and keeping his mouth shut, not wanting to speak on any of it with his sister anyway. The pair also stopped to grab beer, and a greasy paper bag full of burgers and fries to share with Iggy for lunch, then entered the crumbling shitheap of a house they'd grown up in and got to work ripping up floorboards, replacing drywall, and taking their time in repairing the place as much as they could. 

The three of them knew that it had to get done, that there wasn't much time left before their father would return to the house upon his release, though they didn't yet speak on it. They also knew that if it wasn't complete before then, there would certainly be hell to pay and none of them would be safe from his wrath, especially Iggy, who'd been the one to cause all the damage in the first place. 

But as light and relaxed as Mickey had been elsewhere, being back inside this house still made him feel uncomfortable, still made him anxious and nervous, and still reopened long forgotten and repressed emotions and memories he'd rather never think of ever again. Though he still tried his best to ignore it all, to push it away and keep his focus, intent on helping his brother complete the work that needed done, dispite the painfully distracting surroundings he was forced to work in. So, that's what Mickey did, setting his mind to fixing the bathtub faucet, replacing the floor, ripping out plaster and wallpaper that had already begun to mold, and drowned out his thoughts with booming blasts of loud music and the deafening blare of power tools, refusing to let his mind stray from what he came to do. He was still only here to help his brother, no matter how he felt about everything else.

He'd set Mandy to mostly taking measurements just to keep her out of the way, and directed Iggy to cutting out dry wall and disposing of moldy wallpaper after he'd marked all the studs and support beams, making sure his brother knew to avoid them. All the while Mickey himself was currently focused on trimming down the ends of floorboards with a buzzsaw that were just a little too long to fit properly within the hallway. 

Though they still had to work fairly fast, Mickey was determined to remain efficient, refusing to give their father any reason to complain when he returned. He knew that there would probably be a noticeable difference in the appearance of the house, but as long as it was better than it was before, his brother would be safe from the man's torment about it. But Mickey still made Iggy swear that he'd never tell their father he had anything to do with it, that he alone would take the credit, no matter how unbelievable it would seem. Even if Mickey willingly avoided the house as much as he could since Terry had been locked up, he also knew that he wasn't exactly allowed inside of it either, that he wasn't welcome here, not anymore. So, as far as their father was concerned, Mickey was never here and Iggy had repaired everything himself, if the man ended up even noticing any difference at all.

By midday, after they'd made a fair amount of progress, all three siblings took a break, cracked open a few of the beers that Mickey and Mandy had brought and settled within the living room to gobble down a few cold burgers and fries, all while the blast of heavy music continued to play, booming out through the large, square speakers beside them. It didn't allow them much room for conversation while they ate, much to Mickey's relief. That was until Iggy had finished one of his burgers and Mandy downed the last sip from her beer bottle and reached toward the stereo to turn their tunes down, setting her eyes on her older brother, who internally groaned while she did, not in any mood to talk, even if he wasn't as grumpy as he normally was. The woman pursed her lips, managed a small smile and very lightly parted her lips to speak with a gesture of her hand around the disassembled space. 

"So how long do you think all this shit is gonna take before it's done?" Mandy asked, "Still looks like we have a lot to do," she said. Mickey chewed on a bite of his burger, lifting his eyes to meet hers, noticing that his brother was now peering across the room toward him as well, then offered a simple shrug as he swallowed. 

"As long as you stay outta the fuckin' way, and shithead over here just does what he's fuckin' told to, shouldn't take more than a couple days," replied Mickey, knowing that would be true as long as they each kept their focus and did shit the right way, the way Mickey told them to do it. Iggy nodded at his words as he chewed over a rather large mouthful of food, then crammed a few french fries into his mouth to chew on those as well. 

"Definitely," Iggy agreed, "Whatever you fucking say, man," he chewed, then pushed his food down his throat with a swallow, "Thanks again for doing this, Mick," added Iggy, stuffing another bite of cheeseburger into his mouth, "I really fucking owe you one," he said. 

"Yeah you fuckin' do," Mickey nodded surely, "Big time," he reminded as he licked his lips, "I'll let ya fuckin' know when I figure out what though," he said. 

Iggy nodded again as well, turning his eyes back down to the meat patty within his grip and took another bite. Then the dark haired man's gaze slowly moved back over to his sister, seeing her no longer touching her own food, but instead seemed to be thinking, hesitating, like there was something she wanted to say, though she didn't appear very eager to speak on it. Mickey dreaded that look, already knowing what was on the woman's mind, though he still wasn't very eager to speak on it either. Instead he looked away, turning his eyes back down to his lunch, just trying to hurry up and eat so they all could get back to work on fixing things up. Then Mandy cleared her throat and Mickey pressed his lips together with a frown and a sigh.

"You guys know there's not much time left," Mandy mentioned quietly, earning her an annoyed groan from both of her brothers. 

"Mandy, not fuckin' now," Mickey breathed heavily, reaching to pinch the bridge of his nose, but their sister didn't seem to have any intent on letting up. 

"No, we need to fucking talk about this, Mickey," she insisted, "Now," said Mandy, pushing a harsher, heavier groan up from the man's chest, but Iggy cut her off.

"Come on, Mandy," Iggy shot back with an irritated scrunch to his face, "Why you always gotta be such a fucking buzzkill?" he asked, to which Mandy flashed him a glare and frowned.

"We can't just ignore this shit, asshole," Mandy informed, "It's better if we get this shit figured out, so we'll all be ready when it happens," she said. Mickey swallowed a final bite of his food and roughly crumbled the wrapper up within his fist. 

"I already fuckin' told you, Mandy," said Mickey, "This shit doesn't even need to fuckin' involve you," he reminded, "Iggy either," he added, flashing his eyes over toward his brother, then back to his very clearly annoyed sister, "I got this," assured Mickey.

"Well, it does fucking involve me," Mandy countered harshly, "It involves all of us," she said, "And nothing you say is gonna fucking change that, Mickey," she spat, very obviously fed up by her brother's denial to discuss any of this, knowing just as well as her brother's how extremely important it was to get this all figured out, "We need to have a plan before it's too fucking late," she said. 

Iggy stayed quiet as he remained chewing, now moving his eyes between them and waited to see what his brother was going to say. Mickey held his frown and curled his lower lips behind his teeth, biting down on it in thought and chewing it a bit as he considered Mandy's words, knowing how true they were and fighting the urge to deny them. He knew that he couldn't avoid this forever, and he couldn't run from it, no matter how much he wanted to, how much he felt he needed to. The dark haired man exhaled thickly through his nose and set his eyes back on his sister. 

"Fine," said Mickey, "You wanna make a fuckin' plan so fuckin' bad?" he queried with a sharp raise of his brow, "Then this is what's gonna fuckin' happen," he said watching as both his siblings gave him their full and total attention, staying quiet and listening intently as Mickey exhaled again. 

"When that motherfucker gets out, you stay the fuck away from here and so will I," Mickey directed, then turned his sights back to his brother, "And when he asks you about it, because you know he fuckin' will," he said, "You tell him that you ain't seen or heard from either fuckin' one of us in years," advised Mickey, "You don't know where the fuck we went or what the fuck we've been doing. You just know that we're fuckin' gone," he said, then pointed firmly at Iggy as he spoke, "And you fuckin' stick to that shit Iggy," he ordered, "No matter what," added Mickey, seeing his brother nod once more at his words, then dropped his finger and rubbed his palms together with another sigh, "Don't think we really got too many other fuckin' options," he breathed. 

The three of them were silent for a moment, just before Mandy blinked with a crease in her brow and sat back, not looking very pleased with that plan at all. 

"That's it?" Mandy asked with disbelief, "We just leave the shit up to Iggy?" she blurted incredulously, swatting her hand toward the blonde man on the couch, to which Iggy flashed her a rather heated glare. 

"Hey!" said Iggy, now appearing incredibly offended by their sister's words and screwed up his own face as he spoke through a mouthful of food, "You think I can't fucking handle it?" he accused, "Think I'm just gonna fucking roll over on you guys or some shit?" he pressed angrily, "Well fuck you, Mandy!" spat Iggy, but Mandy just rolled her eyes. 

"That's not what I meant shithead!" Mandy shot back, to which Iggy pushed a scoff, through his nose, shook his head and took another bite of his burger as the woman turned her face back to Mickey, "I just mean that you guys don't actually think dad's gonna fucking buy that, do you?" she asked, "Since when has that asshole ever believed shit that any of us say?" Mandy wondered, "Especially Iggy," she added, earning her a swift middle finger from the man still eating his lunch, "That's never gonna fucking work," she said. Mickey reached to rub his forehead, then scratched the bridge of his nose with the back of thumb and upturned a single palm. 

"You got a better fuckin' idea?" asked Mickey, "'Cause if you do, I'm all fuckin' ears," he said. Mandy thought for a moment, appearing like she really wasn't sure what to say, just before a lightbulb seemed to spark within her mind and she arched a curious eyebrow. 

"What about leaving, like we talked about before?" queried Mandy, to which Mickey simply frowned again, not liking that option one bit, "I have a little cash saved. I could go with you," she offered, but Mickey shook his head. 

"You know as well as I fuckin' do that shit ain't gonna fuckin' work either," he countered, "Even if we did take off, we'd be broke in a couple fuckin' years and then what?" asked Mickey, "Besides, you know Terry has eyes and ears fuckin' everywhere," he added, then exhaled another heavy sigh, "He'd find us both before we got too fuckin' far anyway," he said, "I'm not letting you go down for me when I'm the only one he really fuckin' wants," Mickey insisted, "You know he'd fuckin' kill us both if he found out you were helpin' me," he said, "And I'm not gonna let that fuckin' happen," he breathed. 

"But you'll let Iggy risk his ass?" Mandy queried through pursed, frustrated lips. 

The dark haired man peered over toward his brother, who had finally finished his burger and held a rather serious expression, clearly not bothered by being the one to keep Mickey concealed from their father, then looked back at Mandy. 

"He knows what he's fuckin' gettin' into," defended Mickey, to which their blonde headed brother tipped his chin with agreement, but Mandy wasn't swayed. 

"So do I," she assured, to which her brother offered nothing in return, still not wanting to put his sister in harm's way and refusing to give their father any reason to go after her when she'd already gotten away. He crossed his arms over his chest and sat back in his seat with a crease in his brow, just before Mandy leaned forward and spoke in a much more desperate tone, "Just let me help you Mickey," she said, "You don't have to do this alone."

As much as Mickey appreciated his sister trying to help him, he was also fucking stubborn and would still just rather she not be involved at all. He'd rather not involve Iggy either honestly, but knew that as much as Iggy may fuck up other parts of his own life, when it came to protecting his brother and having his back, it was different, a fact the man had already proved to Mickey all those years ago when their father got locked up in the first place. And Mickey still didn't want to run either, didn't want to be forced into throwing his life away, everything he'd worked so hard to acquire. It was his and he wasn't going to give that all up without one hell of a fight. The best thing he could do right now was just bide his time and try to stay as far away from the man as he could, even if it seemed near impossible. Mickey rubbed his palms together again as he thought, then sucked his lip back into his mouth and exhaled once more.

"Let's just stick to what I fuckin' said for now," Mickey advised, "And if shit changes, we'll come back to this," he offered, "Ain't no fuckin' sense in arguin' about it any more right now," he said. Mandy held her frown, her face still drenched with skepticism and pushed a small huff out through her nose. 

"If dad has eyes everywhere, how can you be sure that he isn't gonna find you if you stay?" wondered Mandy, "How do you know that he isn't gonna come looking for you as soon as he gets out?" she asked. Her brother pressed his lips together and gave a single blink. 

"Because that asshole never fuckin' looks to see what's right under his fuckin' nose," said Mickey.

At that Mandy said nothing, knowing that Mickey was definitely right about that, not noticing much of anything going on behind his back until the matter was thrust right into his face. Maybe there was a chance that this could work, that Mickey could hide, that everything would end up being okay, as long as they were careful. But if she did still doubt, she didn't say, biting her tongue and stifling whatever protests she still had inside. They'd both just have to trust him on this and wait to see what happens. Then Mickey stood, grasped his emptied burger wrapper from the table between them and tossed it inside the empty paper bag it'd come in and gave his head a flick. 

"Now let's get back to work so we can finish this shit up," he said, "Like ya said," he glanced back over at Mandy, "There ain't much fuckin' time left," said Mickey.

And with that, the three of them did just that, Iggy and Mandy going back to the jobs that Mickey had assigned them to, and Mickey himself put his focus back onto trimming down floorboards and fastening them into place with his drill. But now, whatever good mood Mickey had been in when he'd arrived had been spoiled by the discussion between he and his siblings, now unable to wipe away the sense of dread and depression that began fogging up his mind. Now his father's release was all he could seem to think about and he became frustrated about it all over again, no matter how hard he tried to ignore the nag that pulled at the back of his brain. He could feel the doom setting back in, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to shake the feeling anymore. 

Though still he tried, having turned the music back up and kept his hands busy, determined not to let it affect what he was doing. But the longer he worked, the more he just wanted to get out of here, wanted to leave as soon as he possibly could. So, Mickey just tried to work fast, all the while still trying to set his mind on other things, things that didn't stress and unnerve him the way that his talk with his siblings had. As difficult as that was though, he eventually thought of something that seemed to help him, seemed to calm and relax him again, at least a little bit.

Mickey began to think of the things that he often did now when he began to feel stressed, began to reminisce and remember the feeling of wide, firm hands gliding up the muscles in his legs and along his back. He thought of the hard, tight, grip of them as they smoothed over his skin and worked out the tension from his limbs, along with the tall, handsome redheaded man they were attached to. 

He began to think of Ian, and how relaxed and loose his sessions with the man always made him feel and how much he always looked forward to having them again, probably more than he'd ever admit aloud. And it seemed to help quite a bit, just like such thoughts always seemed to now ever since he'd met him, since his very first session alone in Ian's room with him. Then almost just as quickly as his mood had been spoiled, it seemed to lighten just a bit once again, now able to push the darker and much more disturbing thoughts that possessed his brain back out of his mind. Mickey seemed to forget all about it again just like before, the memory of Ian's grip and grasp along his flesh somehow overshadowing all else, at least for now. 

So as he worked, finding it much easier now to keep his current focus, he kept such thoughts in the back of his mind, silently recalling as much as he could about his masseuse and how he made him feel each time he saw him, both mentally and physically. And Mickey was suddenly able to get things done much quicker than before, so very easily, almost effortlessly, as long as he kept Ian in his thoughts, and the rest of the afternoon seemed to pass much quicker than he realized. 

Then when the sun began to dip within the sky, dimming the clouds beyond the windows, Mickey worked with almost a smile on his face and opted to take another break to sit back and spark up a cigarette, now unable to rid the redhead from his mind at all, not that he really wanted to anyway. As he sat within the hall, he began to think even further, knowing that today was Friday and Ian should be expecting him in a few hours. Though he hadn't yet decided if he was going to return to the Red Swan tonight, Mickey didn't really see a reason not to, especially not when the other man had already occupied his thoughts so heavily. But he still just wasn't too sure, and sat further back within the newly floored hallway to press his back against the wall and slipped his cellphone out from his pocket to peer down at in study, pausing his thumb where Ian's name appeared. 

He still hadn't contacted the man, hadn't made an appointment to see him tonight, partially just from simply being to nervous to do so, as much as he'd never admit, but also because he just hadn't really felt the need, not until now. Mickey still wasn't entirely certain why the redhead had given him his number in the first place, thinking that perhaps it was simply to help set up appointments. But he also sort of wondered if it meant anything more, though he didn't let himself contemplate the thought for very long. Even if it really did mean anything more, Mickey still knew that the way his life was right now, that he wasn't in a position to give more, not to anyone, even if he wanted to. It was just too risky, not just for himself, but for anyone he may become involved with. And even if he didn't know Ian very well yet, he didn't want to jeprodize the man's life for his own selfish wants and needs. Ian didn't deserve to deal with that, and he wouldn't let him deal with that, not if he could help it.

Mickey also didn't want to feel like he was becoming dependent on Ian and his services, having never felt right about depending on anyone really, preferring to take care of things himself. But his sessions with Ian have begun to make him realize that there are some things that he simply can't do alone and it's still okay to get a little help with it, at least once in a while. Being so tightly wound all the time wasn't good for him and he knew that too, needing to allow himself some time unwind, to let go and relax, his massages with Ian having become an almost perfect way for him to do that. And since the Red Swan had a very strict confidentiality policy, Mickey felt a little safer indulging in more sessions with the man, knowing that no one had to find out about it if he didn't want them to. 

So as nervous as Mickey was about finally sending Ian a text, he decided to do so, slowly typing out a short, but simple message and held his breath as he sent it, hoping so much more than he probably should have that he would get something in return. 

'Hey, this is Mickey,' he'd said, and now he waited, tapping his foot, chewing his lip and suddenly began puffing a little harder on the cigarette burning between his fingers. Then he couldn't help but smile just the slightest bit, when almost immediately there was a message sent right back, and he felt a gentle, tickling flutter begin to gather inside his chest. 

'Hey Mickey, what's up?' it read simply, causing the dark haired man to fidget his fingers and tap his foot again, trying to force down the pleased yet excited grin that threatened to split across his face. He also didn't want to reply too quickly, didn't want to appear desperate or too eager, but he couldn't really help himself, instantly typing out another quick response of his own.

'You working tonight?' Mickey asked and sent back, sucking in another drag of smoke as he stared down at his screen, watching as a line of tiny, rolling dots appeared, telling him that the redhead was typing back to him. And the reply that he got came just a quickly as the one before it, causing him to smile again, all while still trying to ignore the little flutters now swirling around inside his rib cage. 

'Yes I am. Should I be expecting you?' Ian replied, to which Mickey couldn't help but chew his lip again and smirking while he did. He paused for just a moment and then thought 'fuck it.' Mickey knew that he wanted to see him again, needed to see him again and just between the two of them, there wasn't any reason to deny it. 

'Yeah,' Mickey typed, pausing again, then continued, not wanting to be too obvious about it, 'If you're not already fuckin booked,' he added, then sent it, now waiting again. Then Mickey smiled once more when Ian didn't hesitate to reply. 

'I think I could pencil you in,' the redhead responded, and Mickey couldn't help but chuckle behind his lips and push a small, amused scoff through his nose at the other man's seemingly smug reply. Mickey was just about to send another text, when a second came through, 'Usual time?' asked Ian, causing Mickey to bite his lip over a grin. 

'Yeah,' Mickey typed once more, 'See ya then,' he sent. 

Then the dark haired man slipped his cellphone back down inside his pocket and rose from the floor, ready to head back to his apartment to shower and change his clothes, suddenly much more anxious and eager to get out of this house than he had been all day. Mickey walked out from the hallway, now straightening out his expression to hide the smile that still tried to tug at his cheeks and paused beside the front room table to snuff his cigarette out into an ashtray. He then reached toward the stereo and turned down the booming blast of music that still filled the room so he could get his siblings' attention.

"Aye!" called Mickey, causing Iggy to arch his neck and poke his head around the archway from where he sat on his knees replacing drywall and Mandy paused within her seat at the kitchen table, looking up from her wallpaper measurements with a pen and a tape measure in her hands, "This is fuckin' plenty for today," he informed, "We can pick this shit back up tomorrow," he said. 

"What?" asked Mandy with a confused tone in her voice, "But we're making good progress right now," she said, then raised a single perplexed eyebrow and shrugged, "Why don't we just keep going?" she offered, to which Iggy tipped his chin in agreement, but Mickey just shook his head. 

"Nah," replied Mickey, "I got other shit I gotta fuckin' do tonight," he said as he reached into his pants pocket for the keys to his truck, then flashed them bith half a glance as he pulled them out, "And I don't fuckin' trust either of you fuckers not to fuck shit up if I'm not here," he added, earning him a laugh out of Iggy and an eyeroll from Mandy. 

"Isn't this a little more important than whatever the fuck you're going to do?" Mandy asked with a gesture around the space, though Mickey just shook his head again, not even considering changing his plans to stay. 

"Nope," he replied firmly, confidently, like it wasn't even a question to him at all, "Like I said, we can fuckin' finish this shit up tomorrow," Mickey repeated insistently, not wanting to waste any more time in leaving, "I gotta fuckin' go," he said, but Mandy wasn't letting him depart so easily. 

"What could possibly be more fucking important than this?" Mandy pressed incredulously, sounding as if she thought her brother was either stupid or insane, "Where the fuck are you going?" she asked, sounding almost demanding, to which Mickey frowned at her tone and sharply arched his brow as he glared at her. 

"None a your fuckin' business," Mickey spat back, "I just gotta fuckin' go and that's all you need to fuckin' know," he said more insistently, not at all liking his sister's attitude and fought back the urge to call her a bitch for pushing him so much. Mandy frowned as well and parted her lips to speak again, but just like earlier it was Iggy that cut her off. 

"Just let him fucking go, Mandy, shit," advised Iggy, "Whatever he's going to do is his own fucking business," he assured, "He doesn't need you crawling up his ass about it," he said. Mickey pressed his lips together, gave a single nod and a gesture toward his brother, urging the woman to listen to him and lay the fuck off, to which Mandy simply crossed her arms with a defeated huff. 

"Fine," Mandy relented, then pointed a sharp, serious finger at her other brother across the room who still stood beside the front door with his keys in his hands, "Tomorrow morning, bright and early," she ordered, to which Mickey offered another quick, simple nod and took another step toward the door. 

"Tomorrow," Mickey mirrored surely, settling the matter as firmly as he could. He then turned around, made his final few steps toward the door and opened it, walking outside, quickly climbing inside his truck and drove off down the street. 

When Mickey arrived at his apartment building, he practically rushed up to his unit, still excited, yet almost nervous for the remainder of the evening to continue, immediately shedding his clothes and headed toward his bathroom to hop into the shower. 

Then as he scrubbed his body and washed his hair beneath the hot, steady flow of water, he let his mind continue to wander, ignoring any lingering hints of shame that still taunted him in the back of his mind as he thought once again of the tall, charming redhead he'd finally be seeing again just a few short hours from now. Mickey sighed within the steam, and tipped his head back to let the water run through his hair and pour over his face as his eyes shut tight, just continuing to think. But as he did, Mickey's hands began to wander as well, slowly reaching a single hand down between his legs and grasped his cock inside his fist.

As Mickey began to stroke himself, slowly at first, he let his mind wander further, imagining Ian once again, his mind's eye beginning to trace over soft, freckled flesh and firm, meaty muscles and moving down further, wondering what the man's body really looked like beneath his clothes, if it was as perfectly toned as he hoped it was. He envisioned a lighter spattering of perfectly round freckles scattered along smooth, pale skin that spread across his abs down to the thick, sharp cut of his hips, as well as the thin, neat trail of hair that might trickle down from his navel into the lower depths of his body. 

Then Mickey's breath began to stutter and fall heavy as his fist sped it's pace, now biting his lip and dipping his head back forward with the softest breathy groan. He pressed his eyes shut more tightly, grasping his hand more firmly around his cock as the hot stream of water continued to wash down over him, imaging that the redhead's fist was wrapped around him instead of his own and how perfectly he'd stroke him off if it was. Mickey then placed a hand on the water beaded tile in front of him to steady himself, and slicked the tip of his tongue across his lip before biting down again, swallowing a heavier moan that'd suddenly become trapped inside his throat. Fuck, how he wished the images and sensations of his mind were real, even if only for a moment.

Then when his mind traveled even further, imaging the thick, hard, heavy cock that the redhead was sure to have hidden within the sweats Mickey often saw him wear, knowing just how very much he'd love to grasp and hold and stroke it, making Ian hitch and moan from every touch, Mickey suddenly felt his brain grow fuzzy and his balls began to tighten. His cock began to throb within his grip as it quickened even more, his mind now filling with the lusty, wanting sounds of the redhead moaning from his grasp, and he moaned heavily himself within the fog as he felt an urge to burst. Mickey's other hand curled into a fist against the tile and he felt the overpowering sense of release spill over him as a hot, hard shot of cum began to spurt from the tip of his cock, shaking his legs, and trembling his pores as his balls began to drain. Then his breath stuttered once more as his cock emptied of his orgasm and washed down into the drain between his feet, as his hand finally slowed and released from himself with a spent and satisfied sigh into the steam. 

Mickey opened his eyes and blinked a few times as he stood within his shower beneath the flow, shamelessly feeling even better than he did before, part of him hoping that his activities would save him some trouble during his upcoming massage session. He thought maybe it would be easier not to get too aroused beneath Ian's hands, having finished himself off beforehand. So then he took a breath and sighed again, just before he rinsed his face and body a final time, then reached to shut the water off.

When Mickey emerged from his bathroom, he walked straight into his bedroom with a towel around his waist, then dried his face and hair with another as he began searching through his clothes. After sorting through several different shirts, he finally settled on deep, royal blue one with gray buttons down it's front, slipping it over his shoulders, fastening the buttons down his chest and folded the sleeves up to his elbows. He also selected a black pair of pants and fairly nice pair of shoes to match, then studied himself within his mirror as he combed his hair back along his scalp. 

Then Mickey stood for a moment as he looked, peering down over his body and clothes, and just tried not to lose his nerve. But a quick, sharp sip from his flask helped him keep it, helped him gather back his confidence and he stood up a little straighter as he split a small smirk, just before he grabbed his wallet, keys and cellphone, tucking them away inside his pockets, then headed back downstairs to his truck.

He made his way back over South toward the Red Swan with a bit of a lead foot atop his pedal, the way he often did now, still keen on meeting for his appointment with Ian, so much so that he almost felt impatient, antsily tapping his fingers atop his steering wheel as he went. Mickey was still determined to make the most of the time that he had with his father still in prison, while he was still free to do as he wished without the threat of prying eyes that would be sent to seek him out. He may not exactly be entirely open about his preferences and activities, but he didn't yet feel the need to hide again, at least not in the way he knew he'd be forced to do again in just a few short weeks. Mickey was going to embrace his freedom for what little time he still had it. 

Then as Mickey pulled into the facility's lot and parked his truck, he paused to take a breath, to calm his nerves and ready himself for what he knew would be another indescribable session with his masseuse, and forced himself not to look too obviously excited about arriving for it. But fuck, who was he kidding? Excited was a fucking understatement to describe how he felt right now, already knowing just what kind of pleasures were to come to him inside, more than ready to see the stunningly handsome redhead that always made him melt in a way that no one else ever had. Sessions with Ian never failed to be beyond amazing, no matter how many times he'd come.

So without pausing a single second longer, Mickey swung open the door, stepped out from his truck, and with a much more confident strut, he made his way up the narrow little walkway to the front door of the building to check in for his appointment. And he already knew with overwhelming surety, that he wasn't going to regret it.


End file.
